Halo: Chimera Rising
by Katsuhiro
Summary: "Impassive, resilient and utterly deadly; the Spartan is the ultimate example of human lethality. Representing the pinnacle of wartime research reached during the Human-Covenant War, they say that Spartans never truly die. Would that such words were true."
1. Prologue: Parting Moments of History

**PROLOGUE:**

**PARTING MOMENTS OF HISTORY**

The following is an excerpt from "_Spartans: On the Use of Augmented Infantry in Contemporary Military Environments" _by Richard F. Stine_ [published 2591]_:

_"...that so many Spartans had been expended in the closing days of the First Human-Covenant War remained the subject of much controversy, particularly following the publication of Section II war materials which - until that point - had been considered classified._

_The Spartans were heroes, evidently, but as a concept proved to be a radically divisive force amongst the wider UEG electorate. Although commentators unanimously agreed that Spartans had, without question, turned the tide of the war (quite dramatically in the case of Spartan-117) this did not guarantee widespread political support._

_In the years that followed, there were a number of theatres which were characterised as internal police action, rather than outright military conflict. Accordingly, the concept of further Spartan deployment led the post-war Charet-Hood Administration into a dilemma: _

_Did they abandon the program, and use fleeting resources to repair the ravaged infrastructure of the wider UNSC military (thereby depriving themselves of an undeniably valuable military tool), or did they instead encourage Spartan deployment wholesale, and risk accusations of tyranny from dissenting voices which argued - quite plausibly - that the money was needed elsewhere._

_Conventional military historians maintain that the administration chose the first option; favouring volunteer-based recruitment programmes, supplemented by widespread mass-feed media campaigns. Naturally, such efforts were decried as propaganda by the administration's political adversaries. Eager to assuage their detractors, government sources maintained that conscription-based Spartan deployment numbers remained at an all time low in the post-war era._

_The truth, as ever, is rather more complicated..."_

* * *

_[Voiceprint ID One is calm but authoritative. Voice is confirmed as a North-American male; ident-trace pattern matching [/-DATA REDACTED- UNKNOWN SOURCE DUMP/-]_

_"Tell me what you remember, 239."_

_[Voiceprint ID Two is interview subject. Voice recording is hoarse, raspy. Enunciation is considered slurred. Possible side-effects of exhaustion and battle fatigue. Interrogator-class medical scans reveal an elevated pulse. Significant levels of pain-killers present within subject's bloodstream.]_

_"I... I'm not sure. That I want to, I mean."_

_"Try. You'll feel better."_

_"A ship. Radar signatures, moving all around us. Smoke and heat. Gunfire. Death."_

_- /Source; audio-vid transcript, Beta-V Psych-Analysis Debrief Jan 2554/Subject G-239 - EYES ONLY - NAVSPECWAR USERNET Trans-Serv 0421 /_

* * *

"Right-side contact."

The calmness with which the words left Eric's mouth would have almost seemed comical, were they not moments away from death.

The statement wasn't shouted, and in return no frantic calls responded. Indeed, the only indication that he'd been heard at all were the three winking acknowledgement lights on his HUD.

That, and the barrage of retaliatory gunfire that followed.

Fire-team Scimitar realigned with the graceful fluidity of synchronised swimmers, their translucent outlines rippling as weapons tracking toward their targets. Blue armoured-Elites surged forward down the access ramp; leering shark-nightmares that leapt forth from the twisting gun-smoke, only to be blasted back into the mist. Howls of anguished outrage reverberated down the corridor beyond.

Team Scimitar's deployment had been too little, too late. What had begun as a counter-boarding action had quickly deteriorated into a desperate battle for survival.

Since they'd boarded the UNSC _Perth_, the frigate had quickly become the stuff of nightmares. The ship had been hulled in three places, and was slowly beginning to list to one side. Smoke vented thickly into the corridors, coiling and twisting. It played havoc with the surrounding environment; bending shadows and warping the shapes that hunted them in the gloom. Whether it was acrid gun smoke or venting exhaust coolant from the ship's ailing life support systems, Eric couldn't tell. He didn't care. The only thing that mattered was the next target.

Power from deck to deck was limited at best. Such was the extent of the system failure that the Spartans were partially relying on their suits' internal systems to process the increasingly limited atmosphere. Whirling klaxons droned as spinning hazard lights pulsed through the smoke, etching everything out in stark orange bas-relief. When it was occasionally revealed, the deck was a plasma-scarred carpet of spent bullet casings and twitching bodies, both human and alien. Great arcs of neon alien gore painted the walls, like the morbid brushstrokes of a demented painter.

Still, more of them came. Eric's motion sensor swam red, awash with hostile signatures. He didn't spare it a second glance. It only told him what he already knew.

They were being overwhelmed.

A plasma bolt caught him in the shoulder, spinning him back against the wall. Eric's only response was to raise his DMR and groggily respond in kind. The rifle kicked twice, and another Elite toppled forward, its glinting mandibles torn away in ragged strips. With a fizzling pop the Spartan's camouflage system collapsed. His armoured form shimmered into view, the rounded contours of his SPI armour backlit by bolts of hissing plasma that snapped hungrily up the corridor.

"Scimitar Three; stealth-field compromised," Eric reported smoothly, despite the flood of chemicals and immunosuppressant-chemicals flooding his system. He did his best to ignore the series of bleating icons that lined the bottom of his visor.

"Acknowledged, Three," Scimitar One's voice crackled over the com, "Confirm status."

The wound was deep. Eric's eye twitched as he dipped two gauntleted fingers into the ragged hole in his armour, grunting as they disappeared down to the knuckle. They emerged black and sticky with his own blood. He tried to move his arm, and found that he couldn't. The room swam around him, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut to clear his vision. He instantly reached for the trauma kit bolted onto his thigh.

"One, Three; status orange."

"Status orange confirmed, Three. Rotate and shift: Pattern Golf."

"Pattern Golf; solid copy."

"Two, Four; maintain suppressive fire - keep him covered."

Two green acknowledgement lights responded. A pair of shimmering rumours, Spartans both, loped forward; knees bent, weapons spitting. Eric back-pedalled up the corridor, both his rifle and the trauma kit balanced in the crook of his good arm. Disciplined cover fire drove the Covenant warriors back, forcing them to duck back into the shadowy gloom, the only sign of their presence being the luminescent glow of Jackal Point Defence Gauntlets, and the glittering flash of Sangheili mandibles. They continued to take snap shots at the retreating Spartans, a flurry sandstorm of green and blue shots lancing up the corridor and sparking into the deck.

The Spartans had just retreated past the threshold of a large emergency pressure seal when a lucky plasma bolt caught one of them squarely in the head. Scimitar Two flopped wordlessly to the deck, fizzling into view as her stealth field collapsed. The HUD icon representing her vital signs keened an ominous red.

"Four: Two's down!" there was no disguising the panic in Matt's voice.

"Maintain com-discipline, Four!" Scimitar One barked sternly, "Three, I need a visual status confirmation on Two."

"On it." Eric replied, thumping a bio-foam canister into the hole in his shoulder and squeezing the activation grip. He didn't pause to remove the canister as he ducked forward, his DMR bucking awkwardly as he fired it from the hip. He tossed the rifle aside as it clacked empty.

A single glance at Scimitar Two, Ellie, told Eric everything he needed to know. She was face-down; a spider web of jagged cracks creeping across the dome-like visor. Her leg twitched erratically, as if refusing to die. Bracing himself, Eric rolled Ellie over. A touch of his gauntleted palm de-polarised her visor.

A pair of unblinking blue eyes stared up at him lifelessly. Eric turned toward his team leader, Joseph.

"Ellie's gone, Sir."

Joseph didn't reply. Instead he grabbed an emergency access lever set into the bulkhead, wrenching it with a snarl. The emergency blast door slammed downward, cutting off their pursuers. The blast door shook and dented inward as plasma rounds and enraged fists thumped into it, but it held. The muffled cries of incensed Elites cursed them from beyond the door.

Scimitar One de-activated his stealth shroud, absently tugging an unexploded needle shard out of his breastplate and casting it aside. Like the others, his armour was a mess; a battered patchwork of plasma-charred plating and melted crystal-glass. Joseph opened a new com-channel.

"Scimitar Actual, this is Scimitar One; come in over."

The return signal popped and jumped with static as it came through.

"-read you, Scimitar One,"

"Scimitar Two is down. I repeat; Scimitar Two is confirmed MIA," he touched the side of his helmet to try and boost the signal, "Requesting new orders."

"-cknowledged, Scimitar One. Standby-"

The link went dead.

Even with the _Perth's_ faltering communications network boosting their signal strength, the abundance of plasma charge around the Perth was playing havoc with fleet-wide communications. Joseph shook his head and reverted to the inter-squad channel, tapping a series of commands into his wrist-mounted TACPAD. Behind him, there was a bright flash from the door, and a searing beam of bright blue light began carving its way through the bulkhead's thick armour plating.

The Covenant had brought up a cutting beam.

The burning beam of light sawed in a circular pattern, looking for all the world like the top half of a baleful eye. Bubbling molten sparks dribbled and spat out onto the deck, where they smouldered and sizzled. Team Scimitar's moment of brief respite was over. The Covenant were breaking through.

Scimitar One looked down at Ellie's broken body, then looked back at the smouldering bulkhead. The cutting beam was halfway through.

"Team Scimitar, on me; prepare to withdraw."

"Withdraw?" Matt balked, incredulous, "But what about the _Perth_? What about Ellie?"

"I would save it if I believed there was anything still worth saving, Four." Joseph answered curtly, "Coms are down and we've already lost one Spartan; I won't lose another two. We're leaving. Matt, divide Two's remaining ammunition between the two of you. Three, prep the body - you know what to do."

"Understood." Eric replied.

Without another word Eric laid Ellie on her back, folding her arms across her breast-plate. The cutting beam had almost worked its way down to the floor. He gently touched her visor one final time, re-polarising it, before hurrying after the others.

Settled in Ellie's hands was a final parting gift for her killers: a primed C9 Satchel charge, keenly-balanced on a dead man's switch.

Even in death, the Spartan would prove a deadly foe.

* * *

_[image source blurred (source: cigarette smoke?). Sound detected [exhalation]. A pause. Thirteen seconds elapse, no audio detected, then-]_

_"What happened next?"_

_"Our orders had been to ensure the Covenant boarding action failed. By the time we set down on Perth's hangar bay, the ship had already fallen into enemy hands. And not just a single boarding party - that we could have handled. There were hundreds of them. All fired up, too."_

_"It seems unusual, that the Covenant would deem it necessary to board the ship, rather than simply destroy it."_

_"They were looking for something. The _Perth_ wasn't just a standard frigate; our intel had flagged it as a Priority One Research Vessel."_

_"And you deployed from the _Coventry_, even in spite of the Earth Force-Recall Directive?"_

_"Scimitar Actual made the command decision. The ship was carrying something important. Something alien. Our orders came direct from Section Three; we didn't question them when we got the call."_

_"And yet your team abandoned the combat theatre."_

_"Bullshit! There was nothing to be found. The Science Deck had been torched before we even touched down. Earth was being invaded, and we'd already lost Ellie. Frankly, Sir, we had bigger fish to fry. Whatever your spooks were working on, they didn't leave much for the Covenant. We aborted because the combat theatre was a no-win scenario."_

_"I thought Spartans specialised in no-win scenarios."_

_[Sound detected: (derisive snort?)] _

_"Yeah, so they keep telling me."_

_"Nobody blames you for what happened, 239. We just need you take us through what happened on that ship. Things will get better for you if you do. Now, please, go on..."_

* * *

The deck trembled and shook beneath their feet. The lights overhead dimmed for a moment, flickered, and then throbbed back to life with a sickly pulse. Ellie's parting gift had been received.

Up ahead, Team Scimitar were encountering problems of their own.

"We're cut off!" Matt exclaimed, pumping the slide on his shotgun and discharging a blind shot around the corner. In return, a dozen needle shards whickered into the support column he'd taken cover beside, spitting as they erupted with fitful bursts of vibrant colour. Never one to leave an argument unsettled, Matt pulled a grenade from his webbing and slung it around the corner with a well-practiced flick of his wrist. A blast of smoke vented from around the corner; spattering alien body parts through the air. An answering fusillade of needles, plasma shots and plasma grenades launched themselves up the corridor, causing the Spartan to shrink further into cover. They were pinned.

The Covenant had them hemmed in from both sides. To the front, an impenetrable Jackal phalanx lined the corridor, marshalled and supported by their taller, more muscular cousins, the Skirmishers. The birdlike aliens squawked and crowed to each other as they picked shots toward the Spartans. To the rear, countless Elites were picking their way through the ash-choked corridors, wary of any further traps. Eric had drawn his side-arm with his good arm, and methodically picked targets out of the gloom. His other arm dangled limply by his side, useless.

Joseph knew they had to do something, and fast. A consulting glance at his TACPAD informed him that the hangar bay was only a hundred yards away, but it might as well have been a million, given the sheer numbers of Jackals clogging the corridor ahead. Throaty Sangheili battle cries wafted up the corridor behind him.

_If the Elites catch up with us, any further debate's going to be a moot point._

"Team Scimitar, ready grenades and prepare to charge."

Neither Matt or Eric questioned the sanity of the decision. Privately they both knew there was no other option. Matt pumped the slide on his shotgun with an eager _clack_. Eric holstered his pistol and plucked a grenade from his webbing.

"Ready," they chorused, grenades primed.

"Do it."

Eric hurled the grenade so hard it almost took the head of a Skirmisher clean off. The alien barely had time to shriek before a biting cloudburst of slicing shrapnel reduced it and its surrounding clutch-mates into neon purple vapour. The mist was still dissipating when the three Spartans barrelled through, slamming into the heart of the Jackal formation with all the crunching subtlety of a battering ram. Jackals squealed in terror as scything armoured gauntlets swatted energy shields aside, splintering the brittle bones beyond.

Matt's shotgun pumped shell after shell before clicking empty. Nonplussed, he deftly gripped it by the barrel and began wielding it as a club. Its stock dented as it chopped into the forehead of the Jackals' pack leader. The surviving Kig-Yar broke in terror, hurling their weapons aside as they baldly fled. Joseph and Eric dropped to one knee, punishing the Jackals for having broken formation with ruthless precision.

They were through. Coated in alien gore, slime and a patchwork of plasma burns, but they were through.

The hangar bay was a war zone unto itself. It evidently had borne the brunt of the fighting once the Covenant raiding parties had touched down. Overhead, plasma-ravaged loading gantries twisted and curled like scary fingers. The few Longsword fighters that had failed to launch had been blown apart in their launch stands, the charred skeletons of their pilots rendered messy smears on the deck below.

Dropships, a wave of Spirit and Phantom class assault transports, had surged into the holding bay. A deluge of rockets had washed over their hulls as they passed through the bay's energy shield. Three of them had careened into the deck, vomiting fire and burning bodies as they tumbled and twisted across the deck, before finally slewing to a halt in a fountain of spraying sparks and screeching metal.

Mounted gun emplacements, lined high along the mezzanine deck, had fired until their gun barrels glowed molten red and the crews were overrun. The marines had doggedly tried to deny the Covenant intrusion forces, giving their lives to the last man. Hundreds of slaughtered Grunts and even the occasional broken Hunter stood mute testament to their sacrifice.

Scimitar's ride in, a Pelican dressed in the olive livery of the UNSC Marines, sat alone amidst aftermath of this carnage, its rear hatch lowered invitingly. The pristine colour of its hull seemed entirely at odds with the surrounding brutality. The Spartans didn't hesitate, sprinting forward. Behind them, alien throats warbled deeply, and a torrent of plasma shots began slicing at their heels every step of the way. The Elites had caught up with them. Oh, but the ramp was so close! Eric could almost reach out and touch it.

Then the world exploded in sound and fury.

* * *

_"A bomb?"_

_"Plasma charged, rigged on a proximity trigger. It was a blunder on our part; we should have expected our egress was compromised."_

_"It was Scimitar's third combat mission. Errors in judgement were expected."_

_"It was also Scimitar's _last_ combat mission. Errors in judgement proved fatal."_

_"How did your team respond?"_

_"We're Spartans: we reacted as any ambushed Spartan would. We got angry. We fought back."_

* * *

Joseph's lungs burned as he rolled about, his body screaming for air. Liquid fuel and fire and heat poured down over him, drowning out the outside world in a ceiling of roaring destruction. Small metal comets slapped into deck all around, tinkling and skittering as they burned. The entire world was ablaze.

"Scimitar!" he rasped, groping blindly for his assault rifle, "Status report!"

Nobody answered him. He groaned as he rolled onto his belly, rifle in hand.

Dozens of Elites were bounding into the hold; plasma repeaters held aloft and their eyes peering keenly into the mushrooming fireball. A flood of Grunts and Jackal reinforcements accompanied them, picking their way over the carpet of slaughtered Kig-Yar with wary clicks and apprehensive yips.

"Spartans," Joseph crowed into the com, "Engage!"

No green acknowledgement lights answered him this time. Joseph snarled in fury and sighted on the foremost Elite and opened fire. The bullets stitched across the blue-armoured alien's chest, punching it back a step or two as its shield began to buckle. One bullet ricocheted off and slapped a hapless Grunt in the temple, killing it instantly. The Elite fell dead alongside it; its shields sparking fitfully, the combat harness a mangled ruin. The Covenant unloaded blindly toward the glowing wreckage, the storm of shots sailing harmlessly overhead. Difficult to pick out amongst the orange-tinted wreckage, Joseph chose a new target and fired again. The bolt on his rifle snapped backward: empty. He smoothly ejected the spent magazine, slapping a new one home. He re-sighted and fired, again and again. Covenant of all forms twisted and fell as they charged across the open ground, spurred on by the throaty bellows of their Sangheili officers.

An armoured hoof crunched into the wreckage behind him, announcing its presence with ominous intent.

The Sangheili Ultra towered over him; a hellish nightmare, back-lit by the burning flames of the annihilated Pelican. Held aloft in its hand was a shimmering energy sword. Its eyes bore down menacingly into his own. The alien warbled something unintelligible in its foul tongue, raising its hand to strike. Joseph went to roll around and bring his weapon to bear, even as he realised it was far too late.

Something landed on the Elite's back. On Joseph's HUD, a single acknowledgement glowed into life, signifying one thing.

_Engagement order received._

Battered beyond belief, armour ablaze in several places, Eric twisted his combat knife deeper into the Elite's neck, un-seaming its neck to the open air. The Elite thrashed and choked, but Eric held on, his one good arm clinging onto the knife for dear life. The more the alien struggled, the deeper and more ragged the blade carved. Joseph raised his rifle and fired twice. His aim was flawless: the Elite's right eye burst like a light bulb, before it slammed face-first onto the deck with a rasping gurgle. Eric slid something across the flaming deck toward Joseph. It took him a moment to recognise what it was.

The de-activated hand grip of the Elite's energy blade.

Joseph's rifle had two final bursts in it before he tossed it aside, snatching up the blade's handle and freeing his side-arm. Another Elite, a brawny officer, was almost on top of him. It whooped a challenge as it brandished an overheated plasma repeater. Joseph unloaded with his pistol as the alien closed, waiting until the last possible moment. As the Elite swung at him, the Spartan ducked past, sliding forward under the Elite's armpit. His hand gripped the Energy Sword's activation grip as he twisted about beneath the Elite's arcing blow.

He primed the blade, ripping it backward with a savage slice. The Elite's head spun giddily through the air as it parted from its body, trailed by a twirling streamer of neon back-spatter. The body tottered forward, spurred on by its own momentum, before toppling in a heap. The Spartan continued spinning on his own momentum, his pistol barking twice and smashing two panicking Grunts off their feet. He dropped to one knee and buried the sword up to the hilt in the chest of the next charging Sangheili, who managed a strangled gasp before the Spartan tore the blade free with a twist and a snarl.

Still more came. His HUD's motion sensor was skipping and shimmering from the damage his suit had sustained, but the wall of red told him the only story he needed to know. Team Scimitar would give a good account of themselves, at the very least.

A second acknowledgement light lit up on the HUD.

Chattering machine gun fire raked over the encroaching Covenant horde, ripping into their ranks and blowing them apart. Matt was hunkered over one of the marine's abandoned double-barrelled assault turrets, hands clamped over the twinned firing triggers. The strobe of the gun's muzzle flash blinked like orange petals as they unloaded. Like the others, he hadn't taken the time to swat out the fires that licked their way across the surface of his armour. Over the inter-squad channel, Eric could hear his friend laughing.

Tactically savvy, the Elites bolted for the relative safety of the access corridor they'd come from, their powerful legs carrying most of them to safety with relative haste. Less fortunate were their Unggoy and Kig-Yar charges, who cowered haplessly before the chopping storm of lead. One or two of the Jackals managed to band together, hulking down in a tidy armoured phalanx. They were still in a tidy phalanx when a plasma grenade hurled by Joseph sailed through the air, hissing into the deck between the three of them. It announced its presence with a shrill keening beep.

"Thanks for the assist, Four." Joseph nodded.

"Thank me later, Sir," Matt shouted over the juddering assault cannon. "You've got about a minute before this gun runs bingo on ammo."

"Understood, Four," Joseph was tapping new instructions into his Tac-Pad, "Keep them pinned for as long as you can; rally point now on your marker."

Joseph turned and slung Eric's good arm over his shoulder. The wounded Spartan was having difficulty standing, and his breathing was laboured inside the confines of his helmet. The helmet itself was beginning to crack across the visor, from where the dying Ultra had hurled him bodily to the deck.

"Still with me, Eric?" Joseph asked.

A groggy nod answered him. More laboured breathing.

"We're almost there. Based on the Perth's design specs, there should be an emergency departure suite somewhere on the far side of this flight deck."

"Escape pods?" Matt chimed in, "You're kidding me."

"Do we have a choice, Four?"

"Do we ever, Sir?"

Matt's gun choked empty. Its ammo panniers were dry, and steam vented freely from the glowing gun barrels. Elites began storming back into the hangar bay, loping toward whatever scant cover was afforded them by the veritable graveyard of abandoned UNSC vehicles; ruined drop-ships and twisted wreckage. Plasma fire once more began to spit up at him, fizzling and sparking as they slapped into the armoured plating surrounding the gun.

"On second thought," Matt remarked, "I think I've answered my own question."

* * *

_"Based on the time-stamps recorded by your helmet footage, by this point there was less than ten minutes until the mission log ends."_

_"Ten minutes might as well have been ten hours. I trust you're familiar with the phrase 'Spartan Time'?"_

_"I understand the concept. Enhanced reflexes and hardwired training leads to an exponentially increased reaction time in combat situations. The result is something akin to living in slow motion."_

_"Yeah, that's the gist. There's a downside to it though."_

_"Which is?"_

_[Subject leans forward. Chair creaks under his immense physicality. A grin is visible beneath the harsh overhead spot-lamps, rendered savage by jagged scar-tissue around the mouth.]_

_"When you're out of ammunition, entirely surrounded and at less than sixty percent optimised combat strength, time doesn't go any faster."_

* * *

Matt was almost fully across the deck when fate caught up with him.

The first bolt caught him in the calf, blowing it apart. The second, third and fourth shots thumped into his lower spine and right shoulder, spinning him about like a rag doll. That it didn't kill him outright spoke volumes about the Spartan's sheer durability. That he then drew his side-arm, propped himself up on his elbow and began to return fire showed his determination to fight to the end. Would that the universe rewarded such heroism with sudden reprieves and a stolen-snatch from the jaws of certain death, but the universe is an unforgiving place, and the murder-choked halls of the UNSC _Perth _even less so.

"Four," Matt managed through gritted teeth," "Status orange. Go on ahead, Sir; I've got this lot."

His last words. The Elites were on him in seconds. One of them finally tumbled as his shots rang true, but there were so many; too many to count. A snarling Ultra swatted his barking pistol out of his hand with a contemptuous backhand, then hauled him upright by the throat. Its reward for this was a thrusting combat knife thumping up under the chin of its faceplate, deep into the brain. It only managed a strangled squeal of surprise before it dropped him. Matt rose to his knees, fumbling for something on his belt. The rest of the Sangheili, not taking any chances, raised their weapons as one and unloaded at point blank range, merciless. Matt's body shuddered as the bolts chopped home. He slumped and fell, broken. His bio-signs flat-lined a keening red.

But not before he triggered the plasma grenades clutched in his gnarled hands.

Those Elites that weren't killed outright by the blast were hurled bonelessly in all directions, maimed and shrieking. As their reinforcements caught up with them, minutes later, the worst injured were executed out of sympathy: three of their brothers had been burned beyond all recognition. There was no honour in such a fate.

Joseph and Eric saw none of this. The second Matt had triggered the grenades they had fired a few vengeful shots toward the unfolding carnage, then sealed the door behind them. Neither of them would allow their friend's sacrifice to be in vain.

They were Spartans. They would grieve later.

If there was to be a later.

* * *

_"You do realise how unlikely it was that such an escape plan would have worked? The _Perth_ was set upon by a CCS Battlecruiser and two light support frigates. The _Coventry_ was hopelessly out-matched and outgunned. Landing a Spartan strike-team to attempt to retake the _Perth_ was a risk. Shooting an escape pod toward Lariel's surface was outright suicide. "_

_"Yeah, I know. I'm the only left, aren't I?"_

_"You're classified as a tier one asset. Your four man fire-team cost as much to train, equip and arm as an entire mechanised armour division. A flippant attitude isn't exactly what the powers that be expect from such a weighty investment."_

_"I'll take it under advisement. Can I get another shot?"_

_"You've already had three, 239. Medical aren't advising it."_

_"Another shot. Please."_

_"Not until you finish your debriefing. You were at the escape pods... what happened next?"_

_"What do you think happened? Complications."_

* * *

Joseph hauled Eric into the escape pod, propping him upright. Such was his immense physicality that he almost occupied two of the crash seats. He tapped Eric twice on the side of the helmet, rousing him back into consciousness. The Spartan's head lolled about sluggishly. Eric had evidently taken more damage in the Pelican's explosion and the ensuing scuffle with the Ultra than previously thought. Broken ribs, extensive bleeding and an almost severed arm. His vitals had crashed from a glowing yellow-orange to an alarming ember glow.

"You still with me, Three?" Joseph asked encouragingly. He could hear the false enthusiasm in his own voice, and hated himself for it.

Eric managed a limp nod.

"I've already programmed the launch sequence on this pod. I'm also going to launch the entire load as a decoys, but that means programming them via the access terminal in the main corridor. Can you cover the exit?"

Another nod, this time more determined. He proffered his pistol to Joseph.

"Load me." Eric rasped.

Joseph clapped him on the shoulder and duly obliged. It was their last magazine.

Joseph stepped back out into the corridor. He'd taken the precaution of sealing all three doorways between the emergency evacuation station and the main docking bay. A muffled explosion and a fresh round of warning klaxons informed him that the Elites, incensed by their most recent losses, had foregone the subtlety of a cutting beam in favour of a far more direct approach. The sealed bulkheads were tough though, and it would take a number of shaped charges to blast through. Even so, he estimated that he had about a two minute, tops.

Joseph didn't waste them. His gauntleted fingers danced over the controls as he tapped in randomised coordinates for each individual pod. Pressed for time as he was, he still planned it with care. Some would arc out toward the planet's surface, while some would shoot toward the Covenant assault frigates, making themselves easier targets for the aliens' batteries. It would have to be convincing if this was going to work. A second explosion rumbled the ship's hallway. Only one more door left. The Covenant were almost on him. Joseph spared a glance over his shoulder, then another back at the console. The shimmering readout informed that it would take thirty seconds for the half-dozen individual launch cycles to complete. Their pod would be the last to leave. A third and final explosion buckled the doorway at the end of the corridor behind him. It held, barely, but the series of dents that began punching into the door's buckled plating told him enough.

He was out of time.

Joseph remained calm. The first thing he did was that he activated the launch sequence. Then he brought up his wrist-mounted TACPAD, keying in a series of instructions. He called up the operational roster for Fire-team Scimitar, and double-tapped the heading reading "Roster Status". A drag of his finger moved Ellie and Matt's names into the MIA category listing. As the emergency bulkheads began sealing shut with pressurised squeals, as their auto-locks rotated, tightened and then finally clocked shut.

After a pause, another drag of his finger added his own name to the list.

The bulkhead burst inwards with a shriek of tortured metal. A wall of smoke rolled in, obscuring the dozens of armoured shapes lurking within. Joseph primed the Energy Blade, taking a step forward and standing straight, his chin held high in defiance. The horde of Elites howled a challenge, their own Energy Blades igniting in return.

_Thirty seconds to launch_, Joseph smiled sadly. He could manage that.

As the final escape pod rocketed safely away toward the swirling green and blue tranquility of Lariel IV's surface, it seemed far at odds with the carnage unfolding in the heavens above. The escape pod hit the upper atmosphere with a banging thump. Its shields flared a trailing comet of glorious orange fire, before it plunged smoothly into one of the planet's mirror-like lakes.

Eric's howl of grief went with it, all the way to the surface.

* * *

_[Subject, ident-confirmed as Sierra G-239, has his head bowed, a possible side-effect of his current condition. Subject's left arm has been amputated below the shoulder, where it awaits prosthetic replacement. His eyes are red-rimmed and haggard; features pock-marked from burnt tissue and cuts sustained from a cracked visor. Subject has received minimal necessary treatment for his injuries, pending satisfactory completion of his debriefing and subsequent SPECWAR THREE Combat Clearance Re-certification /STATUS PENDING/.]_

_"The UNSC _Curious Messenger_ picked me up two weeks later. Told me the war was over. That I'd have to answer some questions. About what happened."_

_"And you have, Spartan. There's only one more question I have to ask."_

_[Subject raises his head. His eyes are narrowed in suspicion. His voice is a strangled rasp.]_

_"And that is?"_

_"What are we going to do with you now, Eric?"_


	2. Chapter I: Employment Notice

"_Integration of existing combat units proved to be a fundamental stepping stone for getting PROJECT [REDACTED] off the ground. That existing operators were being repurposed for roles they had not originally been designed for was deemed unfortunate, but ultimately necessary. Their technical expertise, field skills and raw lethality marked them as the perfect, practical instructors for the next generation."_

_Convincing them of this, however, was another matter entirely."_

_- Classified Transcript: ONI Case File [REDACTED/EYES ONLY]; estimated date [REDACTED], 2555_

* * *

It's hard to sleep in when the wall rolls up into the ceiling.

Crisp morning light lanced through the double-glazed balcony window. Blue sky, thinly streaked with wisps of frothy cloud; all the promise of a glorious new day. The wall-shutter hummed gently as it fully retracted into the lip in the ceiling.

"Good morning, Rebecca", a synthesised male voice said, "It is 7.15am, Local Time. Weather patterns are considered pleasant, averaging at 18 degrees Celsius. You have mail."

News items began flashing across the clear white wall on the far side of the bedroom. News feeds, still images and talking heads. A stock market ticker began to run its way across the bottom of the wall. Arms manufacturing, construction companies, infrastructural and civil engineering firms all showed green. An archaic icon of an old-world envelope began to pulse in the lower right corner, silent but insistent.

Oblivious to it all, Rebecca managed an incoherent groan and rolled over, burying her face in the pillow with mutinous intent.

Then the clanking started. This came from outside the apartment; thousands of construction crews starting work for the day. The reconstruction of an entire city is not a subtle undertaking. Cacophony didn't even begin to describe it: the judder of jackhammers, the shrieking buzz of an industrial cutter and the clanging of a thousand different things being banged, shoved, soldered and machine-stamped together. Somewhat unhelpfully, the apartment's integrated A.I. recorded the sound, looping a playback of it through the surround speakers.

"Alright, alright, Jesus, I'm up! Enough!" Rebecca snapped, kicking the duvet off and rubbing her eyes.

The amplified sound died down, her alarm system suitably mollified.

She padded softly out into the centre of the apartment, cinching the tie of her bathrobe tightly. The apartment was a single space accommodation; an integrated work-live unit where one half of the wide room formed a living area, all thick cream carpets and ice-white plaster, and the other half a dedicated kitchen/food preparation suite. It wasn't quite a penthouse, but at twenty eight years of age, Rebecca was proud of the how she had landed on her feet after the war. She paused to look at the row of framed certificates which lined one of the walls. She was proud of those too.

"You have mail, Ms. Pearson." the integrated A.I. repeated patiently.

"Yeah, you mentioned." Rebecca stifled a yawn with her fist, "Prepare a coffee, then play messages dated 31 August 2555. Prioritise psychological evaluations for patient cases G-F."

The auto dispenser gurgled as coffee poured into a mug on the kitchen counter. Cappuccino, freshly made and steaming. Rebecca slurped greedily, a practiced caffeine fiend. Perfect.

"Loading current work routine as per your request, Ms. Pearson." the AI replied chirpily, "You have ERROR messages."

Rebecca pushed the tangled mane of thick dark hair out of her face and frowned.

"What?"

There was a scolding electronic blurt, like the kind used to chastise dim-witted contestants on ChatterNet game shows. The synthesised voice sounded almost apologetic.

"Error: could not process service request. Please try again later."

That got Rebecca's attention. The apartment complex's AI was never known for its brilliance, but in the twelve months she'd been living in Auburn Wood it had never failed to process a work request. She drummed her fingers against the side of the coffee mug, brow furrowed.

She walked over to the mail icon, and manually dragged it out into the centre of the wall with a flick of her hand.

The window expanded to a dozen icons, ranging from actual client correspondence to automated spam messages asking for URGENT! investment in an exciting new investment opportunity on some backwater colony called Crassus. She went to key the first actual message, a psych-eval report for a regular client meeting, but nothing happened. The message was greyed out. In fact, all of the messages - even the spam - were greyed out. A single message hovering above them, pulsing in full colour and sternly code-stamped with official UNSC sequence numbers. None of the code numbers made any sense to her, but an uneasy crackling sensation prickled its way up the back of her neck.

"What's this now?" Rebecca asked aloud.

"An employment offer." a deep voice said behind her.

Rebecca yelped in surprise, wheeling about.

A uniformed soldier stood in the corner of the room, hands clasped neatly behind the small of his back. He cut an impressive figure, backlit by the New Francisco skyline behind him. Impassive and still, like a figurine on a wedding cake. He was early 50's at a push, with close cropped hair greying at the temples, and a neatly trimmed goatee that complimented his rich dark skin. His uniform bore no rank insignia of any kind, and his physique showed a lifetime of training that was ever so slightly giving way to middle age.

"Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my apartment?!"

He smiled, his teeth fascinatingly white.

"A man spends enough time working in the dark, Dr. Pearson, he gets good at not being noticed."

"You still haven't said what you're doing in my apartment."

"Offering you a job," he said, brushing an imaginary piece of lint from an impeccably clean shoulder.

He arched an eyebrow, then added with a smile:

"Please, there's no need for the knife."

She looked down at her hand. In her shock she had instinctively snatched up a bread knife from the kitchen counter. She set it down with warily, but kept her suspicious glare where it was.

"So you looked me up on Chatter? How tremendously diligent. Care to explain why you're lurking in my apartment?"

If her sarcasm bothered him he didn't show it.

""You're a highly qualified psycho-analyst, who specialises in combat induced trauma and warrior psychology. I read your paper on "The Mindset of a the Modern Warrior - not bad, for somebody who's never seen the business end of a plasma rifle."

He stepped forward, hands spread in an expansive gesture, for a man so evidently disciplined.

"You came in the top percentile of your college class, despite a single repeat test - which was discounted on account of emotional trauma attributed to the loss of your parents on Reach."

She suddenly staring found herself studying the floor. He was still speaking.

"Your transfer here to New Francisco was fortuitous. Since official cessation of hostilities in 2552 you've been working in a comfortable private practice, rehabilitating war veterans diagnosed with PTSD. Occasionally, usually on a quarterly basis, you publish a new paper to muted academic acclaim. They're well received, but you yourself are deemed as being too young for widespread recognition just yet, so I'm informed."

"You're well informed."

"I'm from military intelligence, doctor, being well informed is my job."

"Point, but I still don't see what the-"

He met her glare steadily, solemn.

"Your Citizen Identification Number is 9204-829-5442-C, your blood type is O Negative. Your favourite colour is yellow, although on the majority of personality forms you have a tendency to answer 'red" - indicative of a muted but determined stubborn streak. That will be useful."

Seeing the look on her face, he added, "We do our own psycho analysis too, Doctor. We know who to recruit and when to recruit them. And what we're doing here, what _I'm_ doing here, is recruiting you."

Fully conscious that she was still standing there dressed in a bathrobe, somewhat mortified, all she could do is gawp. _Smooth, Rebecca. _

"For what?"

His expression was deadly serious now.

"I'm Admiral Idris Carter. Formerly of the Beta-V Security Group. We're building the single most effective fighting force the universe has ever seen. And you're going to help us."

* * *

The New Francisco Municipal Trustee Bank was a towering structure; an edifice of smooth marble cladding, vaulted archways and mirrored glass. MTB were a significant lending presence on Artesia III, and their central location on the main boulevard reflected this. Underlit as it was by flood lamps and digital banners, MBT Plaza was as an august, solemn structure.

It was a shame that it had been evacuated. Three block quarantine; total martial lockdown.

New Francisco Emergency Response Teams were bunched around every street corner, impassive figures padded in full-visored breathing masks and matte-black ballistic armour. Com chatter squawked and crackled back and forth between fireteams as observation choppers juddered overhead, search lights blinding as they washed over the building. Uniformed police linked arms and held the media at bay, as armoured personnel carriers trundled into position, rotary turrets angled toward the towering bank.

A perimeter was established six hundred yards out from the edge of the Plaza.

High above the atrium, crouched low on the architrave of the lobby's interior, Eric watched with detached professionalism. Below him, the voices on his audio scanner were shrill, tinged with panic. Things were not going to plan.

"Seven minutes, you said we had seven minutes before an effective response!" one of the terrorists hissed, jogging to the doorway. Innie tattoos covered his knuckles. The red beret perched over his face mask was a crude throwback to the Koslovic heyday. So too was the cut down Sinoviet SKR carbine.

"Relax." another replied confidently, "We've got hostages."

"And they've got frigging tanks, man!"

And on it went. Eric quietly made notes, tapping particularly salient details into the TACPAD mounted on his wrist.

"You're getting all this?" Eric asked, seemingly to no-one. A window opened on his visual display; a delicate Asian face, lightly freckled. Shimmering glyphs and pulsing data runes flowed upward along the counters of her skin, like reverse tears. Kaizen was Eric's integrated combat assistant: a Smart A.I. designed for delicate situations precisely like the one they faced now. This was their third mission together.

"Every word; keep transmitting."

"Acknowledged. Got a count yet?"

"I count thirty-six separate heat signatures below you, 239."

"Black-hats?"

"Twelve."

Eric touched the temple of his helmet. The viewfinder zoomed in. Glowing red squares isolated and tagged armed members moving through the crowd. The hostages were mainly bank workers, all of whom were suitably terrified by the unfolding crisis. One of them, a heavy set guard in his sixties, slumped face down on the ground. He'd been executed a show of force during the initial takeover. Single head shot, point blank range. A statement of intent, no doubt.

A dozen miniature windows and info displays began overlaying themselves over the crowd below. Financial statements, citizen registration numbers, living addresses, known political affiliations. Heart-beat monitors too, all racing. Too much, all at once.

The Spartan frowned.

"Something wrong?" Kaizen asked.

"The display. Little busy for my taste."

"The Gen 2's still a working prototype; we only got the Soldier Pattern from the Materials Group last week. It's our job to work out the kinks, cut it a little slack."

"I am. Point stands. Can you do something about it?"

The icons abruptly vanished. Only the target tags remained. Twelve red squares, sweeping through the crowd, weapons raised.

"Done. How's the view?"

Eric gave the lobby a once over. Six of the terrorists were gathered toward the rear of the lobby, where the atrium tapered back into a central lift core and a series of open plan offices, primarily used for informal client meetings. The remainder were amid the hostages, with two of them standing by the entrance door. They were ducking back from the windows, wary of police snipers nestled in the building around them.

"Sloppy."

"You're hard to please." Kai sniffed.

"Not the HUD, their tactics. No roof sentries of any kind. Gear's outdated too. Mostly UNSC surplus; MA5's and short range PDW's. Borderline antiques in some cases."

He paused a moment. The centre piece of the lobby was an expansive oak reception desk which dominated the centre of the room. There was a bipod mounted on the front desk. The gun snout gleamed hungrily. Its operator was smoking a cigarette as he idly panned the gun in a sweeping arc, his facemask pulled up over his nose.

"Shit."

"Something wrong?"

"They've rigged an M739 over the lobby. Crowd's in the kill zone. Tactical suggestion?"

"Hold off, 239. Too many at risk."

Eric engaged his stealth system. He stood up.

"239, is there a part of the phrase 'hold off' that eludes you?"

"Two-twenty four, Kai." Eric said.

"Excuse me?"

"Combat Directive 2-24; the operator's judgement will always supersede that of an integrated A.I. in a live-fire combat situation."

"This isn't a live-fire combat situation, Eric."

"It's about to be. You've got half of the NFPD mustering outside to blow down every single window in this place. That happens, we lose hostages. I'm going in."

"Standing by." There was a note of resignation in her voice.

Eric did a shake test on his gear. He flexed his neck in a wide circle, rotating both arms. The automatic servos in his artificial arm whirred and clicked in its socket. He left his Battle Rifle mag-locked to the back plate of his Gen 2 armour. Status Green.

"Are we still field testing this thing?" he asked, casually patting his armour, "Worked fine the last time."

"Yes, the Materials Group want more field data on how the Gen 2 holds up in live fire-"

"Good. Start recording."

He jumped.

* * *

Even with a hissing spurt from the Re-entry pack mounted on his armour, the marble tiling exploded under Eric's immense weight, venting chunks of powdered masonry in all directions. The machine gunner overlooking the crowd was dead before he even managed to turn; neck snapped like a wish bone. The Spartan cast the broken body aside like a discarded rag doll, fizzing into view as his stealth system faded. Red armour, golden visor. A white symbol of a scimitar had been painted lovingly over the left hand side of the breastplate. Death on two armoured legs.

In his hands was the M739 Squad Automatic Weapon.

"Oh," one of the terrorists standing by the entrance door breathed. "_Fuck_."

The SAW is not a precision instrument. Used for squad suppression in high intensity combat situations, its role is that of a support gunner. Weight of fire, rather than accuracy of impact is its intended function. UNSC Combat Regulations recommend controlled firing in 3-5 round bursts, in order to maintain an accurate delivery of fire down range. Hip-fire is not recommended.

The UNSC Combat Regulations, Kaizen decided, were not written with somebody like Eric in mind.

Eric braced the SAW under a vice-like grip between the crook of his artificial arm and his chest plate. His other hand was braced on the barrel of the machine gun. The armour encasing his arms went into lock-down, effectively freezing them in place.

The Spartan clamped his finger over the trigger.

The noise was deafening; sounding for all the world like an industrial strength sewing machine set to murder. The last thing the Innies saw was the strobe of the muzzle flash; then that thunderous, guttural roar. By the time the shell casings tinkled to the floor, the hostages had been painted with a mist of pink blood. Six pairs of legs flopped to the ground with a wet squelch. Six target markers vanished. Not a single round had gone below waist height.

The remaining terrorists bolted. Eric turned around, tossing the smoking SAW aside with a clatter.

"Remember to leave one of them alive, 239!"

Eric grunted, unshipping his BR. He snapped the rifle to bear, squeezing off a burst. It caught one of the fleeing kidnappers in the thigh. The man yelped and spun to the floor, clutching his leg.

"Shot." Kai approved.

The other five targets rallied, turning around and returning fire. It was panicked, reactionary. Hard rounds spanked off the oak reception desk, spitting wood chips and exploding inset monitors with fits of fizzling sparks. The hostages screamed, clutching their ears and pressing themselves into the stone floor as rounds zipped and cracked overhead.

Eric advanced, rifle raised. His shields flared as they deflected the incoming fire. The Innies, hopelessly outmatched, did not have the luxury of a shielding system, nor the reassuring weight of dense Mjolnir plate beneath it. Eric closed the gap quickly, a burst per Innie. Four bursts before he closed the gap.

One of the remaining terrorists roared a challenge, swinging his rifle at Eric's head. Brave, but ultimately stupid. Eric caught the rifle neatly, then drove his helmet forehead first into the man's face. Somebody exploded; something wet. Eric moved through him, shoving the body out of the way with a dismissive backhand.

The last remaining terrorist flung his gun aside, falling to his knees.

"P-please, don't!" he stammered, hands raised.

Eric plucked him from the ground by the neck. The man's feet dangled a foot from the ground, swaying. Eric cocked his head to one side as he studied the man, as a wolf studies its prey. He looked back over his shoulder at the terrorist he'd wounded previously.

"No good." Kai reported, answering his unspoken question. The heartbeat monitor over the fallen man showed a flatline. The orange threat indicator greyed out, then faded altogether. "Femoral artery. You'll need this one alive."

Eric turned back to face the terrorist, whose face had gone blue from the Spartan's vice-like grip. The man had pissed himself.

"Your lucky day." Eric said simply, dropping the man without ceremony.

The Innie gasped and began scrabbling backward. Anything to put distance between himself and this murderous god. Then he curled up in a foetal ball, quivering.

New data flashed up on Eric's HUD.

"New code signal coming through. It's command."

"Orders?"

"Withdraw." there was some confusion in Kai's voice, "… and redeployment."

"Redeployment? We've been tracking this cell for months."

"It's a redeployment notice," Kai repeated firmly, "Beta V encryption, but not from any hierarchy directive I'm aware of."

A strange twinge of unease crept into Eric's belly. His eyes narrowed.

"No clues as to who it's from then?" Eric asked.

"It's one word, with routing coordinates attached: 'Spartan'."

Eric's motion sensor began to swarm with movement. Massive incoming, three hundred metres. New Francisco's finest were about to come down on the MBT lobby, hard.

"Time to go." Eric said, re-engaging his stealth field.

By the time the ERT stormed the lobby, in a dramatic burst of exploding inward glass and a searing flash-thump of stun grenades, it was all over. They found the hostages huddled together, covered in their captor's blood but otherwise unharmed, and a single, hogtied - and entirely petrified - prisoner.

Eric was long gone.


	3. Chapter II: Induction

"_Choosing a client world for _Laconia_ proved difficult. We needed tundra; harsh environment: limited vegetation, prolonged exposure. Soaring ridgelines and plunging valleys. Then we needed temperature extremes; scalding sands, ice so cold it burnt to the touch. We needed contained environments too; dense woodland, marshy swamps, steaming jungle._

_Most importantly, we needed somewhere that hadn't been completely glassed within the past thirty years. We were looking to deliver payback, on an industrial scale._

_That it just so happened to resemble Earth seemed fitting."_

- excerpt from the personal audio logs of Director Idris Carter, recovered 2561

* * *

The Pelican swooped low over the Vaphio Heights, mist-shrouded mountains whose craggy peaks loomed out of the gloom like inquisitive giants.

"Inbound, Director." the pilot's voice rasped over the engine noise. "Four minutes out from Laconia."

"Noted with thanks, pilot." Carter replied into his headset, "Set us down gently, the Doctor isn't much for flying."

Carter smiled encouragingly over at Rebecca, who - by way of return - was doing her utmost not to get sick all over his spotless uniform. Atmospheric re-entry from a Pelican was seldom smooth, and with the resulting wind chop angling off the slopes of the mountainside, the descent shook them like marbles in an old-fashioned tumble dryer.

"Weren't you an Admiral before, Director?" she asked, smiling past the lingering gurgle of bile in her throat.

"Until very recently, Doctor. We're no longer at war," Carter replied, patting the simple UNSC Eagle that adorned his jet black greatcoat, "Priorities change, my responsibilities follow suit. I see myself as an educator now.

"As," he added, "should you."

She nodded, swallowing back an unpleasant liquid that might have once been this morning's breakfast. Her teeth chattered in her gums from the incessant rattling. She clung onto her restraint harness for dear life, distracting herself by studying the other passengers in the hold. Most of them were hardened military, and seemed to be coping with the situation far better than she was. One of them was even asleep.

You could spot the prospective candidates a mile off. They were an eclectic mix: young adults barely out of their teens rubbed shoulders with buzz-cut career military, who were dressed in all manner of uniforms. Combat medics, field engineers, former ODST; they had been plucked fresh from active duty and hastily pressed into the induction process. Some of them were still in their field kit. The dress of the non military was even more diverse; denim jackets, blue collar overalls, even a gas station attendant's uniform. There was a tangible crackle of shared excitement in the air. Of the unknown, of a new adventure undiscovered. A first day at school all over again.

Further down the hold, large enough to occupy two entire crash seats, was what they aspired to become.

A lone giant, plated top to toe in thick crimson armour. It was scuffed in places; dented and scraped, battered and scorched. One of his arms was a slim prosthetic. That too showed signs of combat fatigue. Idly, she wondered what could possibly do such damage to such a seemingly impervious figure, and shuddered.

His helmeted face was reminiscent of ancient samurai masks; an almost leering metal cowl, with a single horizontal visor inset into the faceplate. He wore no restraining harness, instead content with resting his hands on the rifle set across his knees. Where others shook and jostled in their seats from the constant buffeting of the rocking lander, the giant seemed frozen in time, utterly unmoving. If anything, the Pelican seemed to shake around him, as though afraid to unsettle this slumbering, vengeful machine.

A living, breathing Spartan.

She'd seen the vids, of course. Who hadn't? Section III's favourite poster child. Humanity's greatest and strongest. The recruitment drive had come only recently. Advertisement flash spots, hot-beamed and digitally spliced throughout social networking sites and Chatterforums across UNSC space. One compelling advert had stayed with her in particular: a single Spartan, retrieving a scuffed MA5 from the depths of a plasma-scored trench. An alien roar boomed out a challenge in the distance. Without hesitation, the Spartan leaps over the trench line and - pausing only to give the camera a brief, affirming nod - charges into the curling gun smoke.

It was the smaller details that did it. The build up of strings, rising in an orchestral swell. The way the Spartan's almost-conspiratorial nod made you want to follow him. But you couldn't follow him. You were left behind. You wanted to do something, to pick up that rifle and stand a post. To step into the unknown and be counted.

The response to the drive had been immediate. The sheer number of Pelicans flying in from orbit stood testament to their effectiveness. Even Rebecca, a practiced cynic, had been impressed.

They cleared the mountain peaks and entered the blessed shelter of the valley floor. The juddering of the Pelican eased off to an ambient vibration. Below them stretched a rich tapestry of dense woodland, laced with streams and rivers, mirror smooth. Occasionally, rugged hillocks speckled with yellow gorse and pink heather rose out of the woodland, or spread out into an open clearing. Everything was a patchwork of vibrant green.

At the far end of the valley, sprawling in the centre of an open grassland, was Laconia Academy.

Academy was probably the most delicate way of describing it, Rebecca thought. It was a small, armoured city. The design of the thirty or so permanent buildings on site was largely practical in nature. Many of the more essential structures; the fusion plant, the air traffic control tower, were more akin to towering armoured bunkers. Their rooftops blistering with machine gun nests. A tall perimeter wall threaded with glinting razor wire boxed the academy inside. Other structures served a more benign role: a library, a transport depot. Their appearance - even with the ubiquituous blast-proof glass - reflected this. The outskirts of Laconia was of a less long-term nature: a rugged tent city; bulbous pod-like structures jostling for space with more traditional synth-mesh camo tents. Smoke rose from a half dozen cook fires, where thermal heating packs had been discarded in favour of more primitive, and appreciatively tactile cooking methods. Planetary defence cannons smoothly tracked them as they flew in, whirring on automated servo-struts until their clearance was verified. Satisfied, they retracted into their gun ports, disappearing beneath the surface like sinking ships.

The landing gear set down on the hardpan with a muffled bump. There was a rattling jingle of restraints being popped and shrugged off. Somewhat tellingly, the Spartan was allowed to exit first. Despite her diminutive height, Rebecca unconsciously ducked her head as exited the loading ramp. The flash of the sun against the concrete hardpan was blinding. The unexpected shock of warm sunlight on skin that had been confined to a UNSC transport ship for three weeks was a welcome sensation. Her eyes adjusted.

It was bedlam. The debarking crowds swarmed her. Five other Pelicans were disgorging their human cargo simultaneously. An imposing line of Beta V security personnel were waiting for them, roaring instructions at the prospective candidates, snapping at their legs with taser-batons. Everyone was treated equally, though again there was an appreciable difference between the qualified military personnel and the fresh faced post-teens. Primarily because it was the post-teens doing all the yelping. That the instructors' voices were for the most part filtered through impassive helmets made the entire process seem even more frenzied. Adding to the confusion were the landing bay teams, who were busy unloading and reloading cargo from a series of larger bulk haulers that had arrived earlier that morning. There were loading forklifts, heavy wheeled HC1500's and small ATVs, which beeped impatiently as they shuttled service teams to and fro.

Carter had already vanished, swallowed by the bustling crowd. Rebecca looked about, decidedly bewildered and hopelessly lost.

A shadow fell across her.

"You're the civilian." an emotionless filtered voice said.

Rebecca looked up to see her terrified reflection mirrored in a golden visor. The Crimson Giant himself. Up close, she did her best to ignore the dents in the breastplate where bullets had tried, and failed, to stop him.

"Yes! Yes, that's me… I mean I'm the civilian. Doctor Civilian. I mean, the-"

"Follow me, Doctor."

By the time Rebecca had finally gotten the last tangle out of her tongue, he was already stalking across the hardpan toward the towering command centre situated at the heart of the Academy. The crowd parted in a wave before him, like something from biblical scripture. Rebecca followed gingerly in his wake, offering meek smiles to those who had all but crunched underfoot. They ignored her entirely, instead staring after the glib giant with a uniform combination of awe-struck terror and admiration.

She had to jog to keep up with his stride.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

Much to her annoyance, he didn't have the courtesy to slow down. He didn't even turn around.

"Induction."

* * *

The Atrium was the single most important building in Laconia. Fittingly, it was also the tallest and most robust.

It reminded Rebecca of the Concert Hall of New Alexandia, with its sloping roof and glass curvature. The exterior was a marriage of martial practicality and minimalist elegance. The sun shone off the beige limestone cladding, which itself was a front for the underlying skeleton of reinforced Titanium-A alloy. The Entrance Hall was an atrium that rose up the full internal height of the structure. Walled with marble, the auditorium bore many resemblances to a majestic cathedral. UNSC banners hung from poles overhead. Unit banners from decorated military units, memorial tapestries for celebrated actions; the significance of them were lost on a civilian like her. Many of them were pock-marked with bullet holes. A bronze UNSC emblem was inset under the smooth plate glass of the lobby floor. A dozen marines lined the edge of the lobby, standing at ease and surveying the passing crowds. A sniffer team waved a scanning paddle at her as she walked by, making a series of incomprehensible beeps. She was still trying to catch her breath.

Dominating the centre of the atrium was a statue of a single battle-scarred Spartan standing astride some broken rubble, holding an MA5 and looking imperiously over the horizon. Sierra 117 needed no further introduction.

A plaque was set into the base of the plinth: _True Legends Never Die_, it read.

The Crimson Giant didn't spare it so much as a second glance. Instead, he marched past into one of the elevators lining the rear of the atrium. Rebecca hastened in after him. He took up most of the room. The elevator music, "Requiem for Reach", failed to alleviate the awkward silence. Rebecca watched through the glass of the transparent lift as the people flooding into the entrance hall quickly shrunk to the size of ants. She tried catching her breath.

The elevator opened. Fourteenth floor, the highest storey in the entire Academy. Office of Carter, Idris; Director of Operations and Chief Administrator of the Laconia Academy.

It was a well-lit space, made up of a formal anteroom and what appeared to be a headmaster's study. A reflection of the man who owned the room, everything was tasteful, understated. Functional too. The floors and walls had been paneled with oak, locally sourced. There was a circular map projection suite in the centre of the anteroom, while the rear of the office held a number of bookshelves. Classical texts, for the most part: Sun Tzu's the Art of War, Tacticus' Annals, even a rare first edition of Admiral Harper's _Advanced Fleet Tactics._ The mahogany bureau at the furthest end of the room was the only form of extravagance on display.

Director Carter stood at the far end of the room, staring out of the full height viewing window. It overlooked the training fields below. His travel pack was still set on the middle of the desk. His overcoat had been hung up on an antique coat rack nestled in the corner of the room. He turned around as they stepped from the entry room into the office proper. The man's uniform was, as ever, immaculate.

"Ah, Doctor, you made it. Excellent. Please, come and take a look."

She did. The view was superb. Below her, the recruits had been lined up for initial processing. Jet black P.T. gear had been issued, and heads were being brutally shorn with systemic efficiency. With the sun beating down on their raw scalps, the candidates looked so tiny and vulnerable. Rebecca felt quietly guilty about the air modulated comfort of the Director's office.

"There are three thousand candidates down on that concourse, Doctor Pearson." Carter said, "Each of them gifted, each of them talented."

He turned to face her, expression solemn.

"Of those three thousand, I expect fewer than thirty will qualify for this programme."

"That few?" she asked, joining him by the window.

"We no longer have the luxury of taking our pick of the litter. The litter is smaller now, for one thing."

"The Covenant saw to that." she agreed quietly.

"Indeed. Our methods may have improved, and with new technology our chances of building better Spartans improves further. But a Spartan is a very special thing indeed, Doctor."

"Special enough to warrant a one percent pass rate?"

"I will settle for less than one percent, if necessary. The original Spartan II's numbered three hundred. Every single one of them gave their lives just to give us the simple privilege of waking up in the morning. Just _one_ of them changed the fate of the galaxy, almost single-handed. Believe me when I say I am not one for overstatement."

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't believe in this programme, Director."

"Glad to hear it. I do too, as it happens. Every race, every creed, every culture and background is represented on that field below you. When I say you're looking at the best and brightest of humanity, I mean it."

Carter spared a glance over his shoulder. The ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth.

"Eric here still has his doubts."

"Eric?" Rebecca asked.

"Eric-239, Operator; Spartan Class." a female voice said, as a holographic projection blossomed out of a display projector fixed into Carter's mahogany desk. She stood less than a foot tall, but the detail in the petite rendering, from the stylish business suit to the no-nonsense ponytail, was exquisite.

Eric for his own part said nothing, instead offering a single curt nod, which she returned.

Rebecca decided she didn't want to try force conversation out of a post-human armoured death machine, and instead turn toward the shimmering blue AI. Kaizen studied her coldly in return.

"I don't believe we've been formally introduced." Rebecca smiled down at her.

"Kaizen. Integrated combat A.I. and informational assistant."

"'Kaizen'? As in 'continuous improvement'?"

"'Change for the better', but essentially correct."

"I thought it was a business term."

"Our business is war, Dr. Pearson. We do it well. Eric's reservations about being here are a matter of record, but the presence of a Spartan on site is logical, and indeed necessary. As both an instructor and a functioning example of what the average candidate hopes to become. My purpose is to assist candidates in realising their aspirations, providing guidance and technical assistance when necessary."

Rebecca turned to Carter.

"And my role in all of this?" she asked.

"Won't be immediately active until the recruit pool is narrowed down to the final class selection. We're not scheduled to commence Spartan training for another three months. What you see out there is simply pre-training preparation."

He gestured toward the scene unfolding below them. The recruits, freshly shaved, had been marshalled into three neat blocks of men. A drill instructor was making his way up and down the line, barking instructions and reinforcing suggestions with not entirely gentle taps of his taser-baton.

"An initial hazing, as it were. Military induction, of an old school variety. We've modelled it on some of the more ruthless ODST recruitment programmes. Very much intial proceedings at this point."

"And what do the initial proceedings entail?" she asked.

"Physical assessment, muscle improvement and nutritional enhancement. Basic weapon handling and maintenance. Former military? Fresh from college? Doesn't matter. Everyone, man or woman, gets the same treatment. We need a uniform foundation to work from. This process provides that foundation."

Six of the candidates were being forced to do push ups. The drill instructors stood over them, roaring abuse in their faces.

"You make them bond. Unity through shared adversity."

"Quite. As I said, it's all relatively text book in the early stages. The first week is likely to see the most substantial drop off in numbers. Physical injury, psychological fatigue. Homesickness too. After that it's a matter of screening the candidates for underlying flaws which might have escaped our initial appraisal."

"And after that?"

"From there it's a genetic lottery." he stroked his goatee as he considered the view below him. "We have to be extremely selective. "

"Why not use all the candidates you can?"

"We can only fill so many places, provide so many suits of armour. The cost of producing a single Spartan - food, housing, medical and physical augmentation - is staggering. Those with potential will be noted, and recycled at the next intake."

"And those found to be... lacking in potential?"

"Physical washouts will be offered positions within ONI Intelligence, with an option to re-apply at a future date. Those who decline will have their memories altered, and be quietly tagged as being unsuitable for continued public service."

"Harsh."

"But ultimately necessary. This isn't the only training facility of its kind, but the work we do here is critical to the future stability of the UNSC. Security is at a premium. We can't take afford to take any risks."

Carter started walking over to the anteroom. She followed, and Eric trailed in their wake, utterly silent.

"Fortunately you won't have to deal with any of those outside. Until we extract the candidates we need from the latest intake, your responsibilities are regarding a more… pressing issue."

Rebecca felt that familiar sinking feeling.

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

The holo-projector in the ante-room lit up. Images of children's faces appeared. Sullen, unhappy. In one or two cases, bloodied and bruised. Barcodes and serial numbers began scrolling across the side of the image pane. Further images overlayed themselves. The children, older now, running on a treadmill as lab-coated technicians took notes. Firing weapons on a target range. Practicing hand to hand combat. Operating a flight simulator. Glaring at the camera.

Kai's voice spoke through the speakers set into the wall panels.

"Class One has five candidates already confirmed, pending final psych-eval."

"Candidate Team Chimera." Carter announced, "A mistake ONI would rather soon forget."

The image switched to a single video feed. It was night time, and the view was hazed with drifting palls of smoke from a fire somewhere off-screen, but it was unmistakably Laconia.

"Six months ago, Chimera tried to escape UNSC custody." Kai reported, "The candidates overpowered their wardens, commandeered a Pelican transport, and managed to escape for a time period of thirty five minutes, before being intercepted after their shuttle ran out of fuel. In the course of their attempt, they injured twenty five servicemen, destroyed a munitions depot and caused significant damage to the subroutines of Laconia's Administrative A.I., Autumn Night. The system has yet to make a full recovery."

"Sounds like they didn't want to be here. And you need me to do their assessment? Why?"

"Because you're a civilian, Doctor Pearson." Carter replied, "Unaffiliated with the military. Forgive me for saying, but you're not exactly the type of candidate ONI looks for in a spook. We think they might respond to you more favourably, as an outsider."

Rebecca looked back at the image of one of the candidates, a dark-skinned girl operating a flight simulator. There was a regal quality to her, a vibrant warrior's pride. The image was a still-frame from a video feed. She had stood up from the simulator, and was staring at the ceiling-mounted camera. The raw malice in her expression chilled Rebecca's blood.

Carter was still speaking. An image of a series of men in suits appeared, their faces blurred. Behind them, the ONI logo was merged with a second logo, of a razor sharp arrow tip, coloured black.

"These candidates were recruited in a different time, under vastly different circumstances. They were sourced by a black-ops team working under ONI's jurisdiction, Codename Arrowhead, now defunct."

"Sourced? You mean kidnapped."

A red line ran through the Arrowhead logo. It disappeared.

"As I said, different times." the regret in Carter's voice was palpable, "The war ended. Arrowhead was disbanded, and the candidates were never formally enrolled in the Spartan Program. Nevertheless, the candidates already received augmentation."

The next image was of a handsome young man with short brown hair. He had stripped to the waist and was throwing a dizzying combination of punches and kicks at a punching bag. The impact registrations on the digital overlay were continually hitting a maximum force threshold. His fists were almost blurs. With a start, Rebecca realised the video feed was being played back at half speed.

"ONI jumped the gun on this one. They weren't ready for augmentation; not mentally. What do you do with an ab-human that has no formalised training and no love for the UNSC? We've been keeping them in protective custody until we can determine a solution. A solution we're hoping you can provide."

"How long have these kids been held prisoner?" Rebecca asked. She couldn't hide her bubbling anger.

Kai answered her.

"Candidate Fireteam Chimera have isolated in UNSC custody for approximately six standard Earth years."

"Six_ years_?!" Rebecca hissed, "No small wonder they tried to escape!"

"Their treatment to date has been regrettable. You won't find argument from me there. Ordinarily, ONI would have taken care of the problem in its own ruthless way, but fortunately I have friends in high places who saw the bigger picture. We haven't seen genes this good since the Spartan II's were put into service. Enormous potential, truly enormous. I've pulled a lot of favours keeping them out of Intelligence's claws."

Carter fixed Rebecca with a look. He ignored her.

"Make no mistake, Dr. Pearson: this is their last chance. You've got three months before the current cycle are ready to initiate formal Spartan training. Get their heads straight, get them ready."

"And if I fail?"

"If you fail, then I'm afraid the candidates will need to be held indefinitely. Chances are, ONI will seek to re-acquire custody. We're talking memory wipes, reassignment and redeployment. Clean house. And in truth I don't blame them. These kids are too dangerous to be allowed free, not when there's a possibility they could fall into Insurrectionist hands."

"So I'm their only shot. Great."

The doctor looked back up at the holo-display. Two of the Spartan candidates were sparring. One, an Amazonian girl of East-European extraction, hurled her opponent clean across the room, where he smacked into the wall and landed in a tangled heap. Eric nodded in quiet professional approval. Rebecca swallowed audibly.

"Alright then. Five superhumans with a burning resentment of their captors and the ability to snap me like a twig. Great."

She turned to Carter, eyebrow raised.

"When do I start?"


	4. Chapter III: First Interview

_"How do you future proof against a galaxy as dangerous as ours? Where our enemies can burn entire cities from orbit? Our colonies never did. Naïve, we struck out into the galaxy, thinking that the systems we had in place for millennia would be enough. That high walls, sturdy roofs and watchful eyes would keep us safe from the darkness, as they always had._

_The Covenant changed everything. Billions died. Cut down on battlefields in droves, blown apart in fleet engagements we couldn't hope to win. Obliterated in a tidal wave of plasma fire that poured down from the heavens above._

_But we learned from our mistakes. We rose from the ashes. We fought back. Inch by inch, street by street, hour by desperate hour. We survived. Ultimately, we won._

_'Never again', we said. The next time we struck out into worlds unknown, we would not be so trusting. _

_I ask again: how do you future proof against a galaxy as dangerous as ours? You do what any infantryman worth his goddamn salt does. You dig down. _

_You dig deep."_

- Major G. Abelev (retired), transcript on lecture on the "Fundamentals of Post-War Infrastructural Design" , Melbourne Military Academy, c. 2554

* * *

It took a solid minute for the elevator to reach the depths of the eight sub-level basement.

The door pinged as it opened. Where the marble-lined upper floors of Central Command reminded Rebecca of a particularly stern luxury hotel, the underground sections - the real heart of the facility - was a coldly functional machine. Metal deck floors kissed metal deck walls; luminescent strip-lighting embedded in the floor lining threw up harsh shadows. Footfalls of patrolling guards clanked as they moved from section to section, quietly alert. The place was cold and unwelcoming. Much like her ever-present escort, Spartan 239, who had yet to say more than four words to her in as many hours.

That those four words had been "Doctor Pearson: it's time" hardly improve her opinion of him.

"Let's go Tin Man," she said, fully expecting no response. None came.

Dutifully, he stepped out after her, scanning for non-existent threats with slow, deliberate turns of his head.

Fortunately Kaizen had opened up somewhat, and had spent the past few days updating her on the real layout of the base. Like an iceberg, the surface layer was only a brief glimpse of the true depth and scale of the Laconia Facility. Eight sub-levels, all dedicated to varying research projects and shadow initiatives. Weapons testing, armour and equipment design and enhancement suites. Medical labs of unprecedented sophistication. The entry level security clearance was Class 4: a near-platinum class rating.

And below all of that, nestled amongst the bedrock, a detention suite; not even registered on the classified architectural plans. Chimera's lair.

Fireteam Chimera. A creature made of a fusion between a lion, a goat and a serpent's tail. In other words, dangerous on paper, but otherwise an absolute mess of a creature. The name was an apt description for the entire situation, Rebecca decided . Five genetic prodigies turned misfits. Fully grown and trained for six years, but without any semblance of cohesion to them. Wild, undisciplined. Dangerous.

But the _potential_, Carter had said. Kaizen too had repeated the sentiment. Rebecca had reviewed the footage of their abortive escape attempt. She had seen the MP's writhing about, with their wrists and arms broken, their weapons stolen. Cradling gunshot wounds, pinpoint accurate, which had left them clutching at shoulders and shins, their faces wracked with agony. That had been enough to tell her hosts' definition of _potential_ was decidedly different to her own.

But what was the choice? The kids had become adults and, against all logic or reason, the adults had been allowed to be augmented. Like a pulled trigger, it was not a reversible process. Now they could run faster, jump higher, think smarter; kill quicker. Living, breathing weapons. Their only chance was to be used effectively, or else be scrubbed from the pages of history like an ignominious stain on a kitchen floor, soon forgotten.

Which is what brought Rebecca here, to a one way mirror peering into a large cell. The cell itself was painfully white, and fittingly spartan. The giant sitting inside didn't mind though. If anything, dressed in his night-black combat fatigues and studying his wrist restraints with detached boredom, he looked used to the experience. It was the same man Rebecca had seen exercising on Kai's initial series of video feeds. The one the A.I. had recommended she interview first. Chimera's de-facto leader, by dint of being less than a month older than his peers.

Candidate 451: Damien. Surname redacted.

Clean limbed, square jaw, blue eyes, the latter a likely by-product of augmentation. Mussed hair, grown slightly longer than permitted regulation length. If he weren't almost seven foot tall, he could have passed for any other handsome UNSC trooper strutting across the base. Like all Spartans, however, Damien was humanity built on a bigger scale. Even so, 451 surprised her. His build was more akin to that of a professional swimmer than the thick-necked berserkers she imagined Spartans to be. He studied the steel table in front of him, expression serious but otherwise unreadable.

As she went to approach the doorway leading into the cell, a small lens affixed to the side of Eric's helmet beamed a pixelated beam of light onto the mesh decking of the corridor floor. The light fizzled as it resolved itself into a shimmering representation of Kaizen, at three quarter's height. She looked up at Rebecca, a stern look pinching her features.

"A reminder, Doctor: it is critical to secure Candidate 451's co-operation."

"You've said this to me this before, Kai. Twice, in fact."

"Because it has bears repeating. 451 coordinated the escape attempt. Of the five, he is the one most suitable in a squad leader capacity. Gain his trust, and opening the remaining group will become appreciably easier."

"I'm a psychologist, Kai. I'm aware of squad dynamics and leadership roles. You just warn me if I'm pushing any buttons that I shouldn't."

Kaizen nodded stiffly, not entirely mollified. Rebecca turned to Eric.

"You. Stay behind me."

As ever, he nodded dutifully.

She stepped past the two armoured guards flanking the entryway. The marines stepped aside, weapons snapping to attention. The door whirred open. Bright light blasted her eyes.

She took a breath, and stepped into the interview chamber.

* * *

For a moment nobody spoke.

They regarded each other. The manacled Spartan and the diminutive psychologist. The man's eyes flicked to Eric, who stared back at him without so much as a nod in greeting. The candidate seemed startled at the presence of a Spartan in the room. Unnerved, even. Evidently, he had never seen a fully fledged Spartan before.

"Good morning Damien." Rebecca smiled, "I'm Doctor Rebecca Pearson. I was hoping we might have a chat."

To her surprise, Damien smiled back. There was no warmth to it, however. It was a thin, lipless smile. Polite, but eyes watchful; as a lone wolf studies a rustling bush for predators ahead. There was a certain hunted look in those artic blue eyes; a practiced paranoia.

"And what is it we're to chat about, Doctor?" he asked.

There was no sarcasm in his voice. Curiosity, for the most part. His tone was polite, almost pleasant. More mature than his age suggested.

"About you, Damien. I was hoping you might tell me about yourself."

"I see."

"You sound disappointed."

"It's all I ever get to talk about." he blinked, an occurrence so seldom it was jarring, "Where are my friends?" he asked suddenly.

"They've been keeping you in isolation?"

He smiled, a genuine one this time.

"'They'? You almost sounded convincing."

"The truth often is. You realise why they wanted to come speak with you?"

"You're a shrink. Trying to get into my head." he looked down, brow furrowed, kneading his knuckles together. "To make me want to fight for you."

"I hate that word."

"Sorry." He looked up at her again. "It's true though, isn't it? You're a psychologist."

Another blink. He cocked his head to one side.

"Do they think me insane?" he asked.

"You were kidnapped at the age of 12, Damien. Brought here against your will. I imagine you've got one or two things to get off your chest."

That flitting smile again. It was a damaged expression.

"We were all inducted. Kidnapped is a very loaded term. I was never kidnapped."

Now it was Rebecca's turn to be surprised. She didn't dare say a word though, Damien was speaking. Something she wanted, even needed to continue if this process was ever going to work.

"I remember very little of my parents. I was too young when I got separated from them. I have.. shapes of memories. Colours. A sense of warmth. I was raised by an uncle, or certainly a man who was like an uncle."

His eyes fell back to the table once more. He seemed to catch himself, realising where he was, and looked up with a start toward where the camera on the wall gazed down at him.

"You can bring me back to my room now." he called out loudly, "I won't be doing any more talking today."

"Yes you will."

Both Rebecca and Damien jumped at the sound despite themselves. Eric had spoken. The Spartan stepped forward, his shadow bearing down over the table. The calm composure of his voice only served to make him more unsettling.

"You'll speak because, like it or not, you have been selected for this programme, Candidate." the Spartan continued, his voice granted a mechanical after-rasp by the crimson faceplate. "You'll speak because it's expected of you."

"And why the hell should I do anything to help you?" Damien snapped. "My friends have been put through enough trouble!"

"Trouble? You speak of a thing you don't understand, Candidate. You never fought in the last war. You never served. Never went clip-dry in a foxhole, surrounded by red-flags and hurting on all things but your own squad mates. Never watched as the only people you ever knew got taken from you, one by one. Mission by mission, piece by piece."

Damien was sitting back in his seat, stunned. Rebecca shook herself when she realised she was cringing too. She preferred Eric when he was menacingly quiet, rather than abjectly menacing. The Spartan leaned over the table, knuckles resting on the table top. They bore groves into the table where the knuckles rested. His visor was inches away from the tip of Damien's nose.

"I keep hearing this word about you Chimera kids. Potential. Well I watched to footage of your escape attempt, Candidate. Amateur level. Unblooded, unorganised, undisciplined. Above all else, inexperienced. You left witnesses. You're _soft_. Scimitar would have cut you to ribbons without breaking a sweat, and we would have done it at half your age."

"You've jumped through every hoop they held out for you." Damien shot back. His chin was titled upward, the muscles in his jaw bunched. The boy, and he had been reduced to the boy that he was over the past minute, was beginning to rally somewhat.

Until Eric reached up and took off his helmet. Rebecca had seen her share of war injuries, but even his appearance startled her. While not quite the poster boy Damien was, Eric could once have been considered pleasant by anyone's standards. No longer. The skin, snow-pale from too many hours without sunlight, was pock-marked by shrapnel wounds. A curling scar pulled his lip upward in a perpetual sneer. His eyes, steel grey and without pity, could have bored through several inches of steel plate.

"Look at me, Candidate. I said _look at me. _I jump through hoops because I don't know if you noticed, _Candidate,_" the word was a hissed slur, "But there aren't many of us _left_. There's even fewer of us who get the God-given opportunity to do what we're capable of doing. And when the next war comes around - and there will_ be a next war - _you will be expected to do your duty. Even if I have to drag you through Induction myself."

The colour had long since drained from Damien's face.

"So the next time I have to come down here with the good Doctor, you're going to answer her questions. You're going to tell her exactly what she needs to know, or I'll feed you to the ONI Spooks myself. Right now, the only thing standing between you and a Section Zero mind-wipe is five foot six inches of 'shrink'. Consider that before you decide to try and have us take part in another Pity Parade for you and your 'friends'. I'll give you a day to think it over."

Eric stood back, clamped his helmet over his head and stalked out of the room.

Rebecca stood up from the table, pointing lamely toward the yawning open door behind her.

"I, er, have to go with him."

Damien ignored her. He was too busy looking down at his feet, face clouded with self-doubt.

* * *

"What the hell was that?" Rebecca bristled at the Eric's departing back.

Eric stopped walking. He turned about, looking down at her. Rebecca suddenly felt for all the world like a particularly well dressed target marker on the wrong end of a shooting range. She felt an irrational wave of empathy for fellow target markers across the galaxy. Still, she held her ground, fists clenched. She could be stubborn like that.

"I was assisting your interrogation, Doctor." his voice was cold once again. Functional, precise. Almost surprised at her ire.

"It's not an interrogation!" she cried, exasperated "I'm trying to get these kids to open up. What is with you people!"

"This isn't your private practice anymore." Eric replied patiently. "Candidate 451? The truth is he has talent. But him and the rest of his squad are going to be asked to do terrible things, if and when they pass Induction. Unspeakable things, in your eyes. He needs to be aware of that. They all do. The only choice they have now is whether he has to do it as the person he is now, or as a drooling ONI puppet in some classified wetworks project."

"It's not like that: these kids can be so much more!"

"They can't be more than what they already are. Basic tactical theory: you work with the situation you're given. 451 is already augmented. His choice has been made made for him. The only thing you can do for them now is you give them the stamp of approval, and I get them trained up to the standard of squad discipline they'll need to survive."

"You're wrong. There's more to it than that. He has a choice."

"Like the choice I was given?" Eric asked simply.

Rebecca's mouth fell ajar. She had no answer to that.

"Do your job. Run your assessments. I have your back on this one, Doctor. They'll get in line."

"What makes you so sure?"

"They've been locked up for six years," he began walking away again, "They're bored."

* * *

True to Eric's word, the second interview went smoother.

The Spartan hadn't said a word to her since their previous argument. He had shown up at her room, nodded curtly, and escorted her back to the sub-basement elevator.

Damien watched them carefully as they stepped into the front room. His face was as unreadable as ever, but the air of tension had faded from him somewhat.

"You seem a bit more approachable today, Damien. If you don't mind me saying."

"I've had time to consider my position in life, Doctor Pearson. To reflect, as Rash says."

"You mean Rashid? Candidate 448?"

Damien raised an eyebrow at that.

"He prefers Rash. It appeals to his sense of humour."

"How so?"

"When you meet him, you'll see." Damien narrowed his eyes, "Of the five of us, you chose to speak with me first. A determined decision on your part. Why?"

"How about we trade a question for a question?"

"Shoot."

"What do you remember from before your induction?"

Damien said nothing, studying the table in front of him once more.

"Well?"

Eric tensed behind her. Rebecca held a hand up, stilling him. Damien was a thousand miles away now, lost in memories long since buried.

"Woodland. Trees. Green leaves. Damp moss beneath my feet. Smell of ferns and wet earth."

"Tell me what happened, Damien."

And so he did.


	5. Interlude: Parting Moments of History II

**Parting Moments of History II**

**Childood's End: The Tale of 451**

_Induction Date: 2549_

* * *

Hibernia is a dreary place to some: seldom sunny, often raining. It's an old name, for an ancient world: "The Cold Place", by its Latin meaning. The name fits. An untamed world, the majority of its continents are an arboreal vastness, a sprawling stretch of thick bodied woodland and lush emerald fields. Streams, un-tamed and leaping with the scaly-flash of imported gene-salmon, wind their way through forest and field. Stonewalls, erected by civilisations long forgotten, line the pathways. They are more akin to dirt tracks than concrete hard-pan. Its people are a simple people of European stock. Irish, Welsh, Scotsmen; the original settlers had seen the rugged sadness of the landscape, and something about it had struck a familiar melancholic chord within them. Perhaps it was the rain that did it. Soft and pattering, it dredged up memories of an older, simpler time; one almost forgotten in humanity's voracious expansion into the stars. For eighty years they had toiled the land. Rich soil, hard work. Communities had grown. Other settlers had come - Dutch, French, Chinese, African. Honest folk all. They too had seen the same value in a quieter, rural life on the fringes of civilisation, and were made welcome. Towns blended, and the universe went on without them. Things are slower out here, at the end of all things. Honest.

Exports were simple, and delivered upward via the planet's only Space Elevator. Lumber, fresh-cut and of the highest quality. Scented pine and towering oak and beech, and sycamore too. Food was shipped up and neatly packaged, but only rare exports. Luxury goods, branded and sold on ancient branding: malt liquor, whiskey and stout. Fish were farmed from the rivers, and crops grown in the fields. There's no Insurrection here, nor is there much word of the horrors that humanity are encountering on the far side of human space. It's a distant problem, drip-fed through a stuttering ChatterNet connection, seldom used.

The unwelcome family arrives later. When cities have been established, and the communities roots have sunk as deep as the trees that surround them. Fresh off a transport, they have no ties here. There are whispers about town, of course. The new family are no family at all. A boy, with deep brown eyes, and a barcode laser-stamped on the inner side of his wrist. He's a slum-child, rescued from a UEG Shelter. That's what the mark on his hand is for, you see. Old ladies cluck with sympathy as they see him blink at the his newfound surroundings, at land that is both familiar and yet not. His guardian is an older man, too old to be his father. A veteran with an American accent and a pronounced limp. He too is strange, and less welcome. Whispers are soon accompanied by stares. The veteran's clothing, Navy surplus woodland camouflage, makes a whirring sound as he limps. His raggedly cut beard is shot through with grey, and seems to shroud a pair of eyes that stare a little too far into the middle distance. They are eyes that have seen too much. There is a palsied shake to his right hand. Shell damage, they whisper. From The War. The War is a dangerous subject, full of tragedy and sadness. It's a distant, exciting thing, and when out of earshot, the man makes for distant, exciting conversation. There is no war on the Outer Colony Hibernia, after all.

How little they know.

It's the man's wife that is the first to win the locals over. Like her husband, she is too old to be the boy's mother. She's kind and gentle though, and smiles past the frostiness of their initial reception. She opens a local doctor's practice, high up in the _Ard Rí_ Foothills. For six years they establish themselves: the man, cutting timber and ranging out in the forests. The Man in the Hills, they call him, with eventual affection. He too has won the locals over, eventually. Freeing a man from a trap here, escorting lost hikers there. Aloof as he is, there's a rugged gentleness to him. They live apart; but by preference, rather than necessity.

Six years pass. The boy and his guardian are in the woods now, three miles from the nearest semblance of civilisation. Overhead, owls hoot and squirrels flit from branch to branch. Shrews dart from hedge to another. They are entirely alone. It is spooky, but Damien is not scared. Uncle Quint is with him.

"Gather this, boy." Quint smiles down at the kid. Even holding the timber, his trembling hands seem as big as shovels to young Damien. "It'll burn better than the other stuff. Less smoke. As much as you can, son. Go on now. Molly will be looking for us if we're not back within the hour."

Damien dashes off into the woods. The branches whip past, slapping against his chest. His heart races, his lungs burn. He's exhilarated, breathless. The smell of damp earth fills his nose. It's a rich, honest smell. The ferns brush at his waist like ghostly fingers. He's not a tall child, not yet, but he moves quickly, booted feet splashing up muck and clopping against thick roots veining the woodland floor. He keeps his eyes alert for suitable timber, keen to impress.

He is too keen. In his haste, he does not watch his footing. His foot catches a treacherous root snaking out across the woodland path. He yelps, hands clawing at the air for purchase. It is a futile gesture. He pitches forward and slams into the muck. Lancing fire rockets up his knees as he lands squarely on them.

Damien won't cry. He won't allow himself to. He is twelve years old now, almost a teenager. Aunt Molly tells him that he's going to grow up big and tall and strong, and he believes her. He has no idea of how truly prophetic Aunt Molly's words will prove. He wipes the muck from his face. It has spattered him, head to toe. His cheeks burn with shame, as he knows it will be Molly, not him, who will take it upon themselves to scrub them clean in the foamy suds of a hand-basin. He is a good boy, young Damien, and gentle to boot.

A whirring click announces Quint's arrival. He pushes through the ferns, a look of concern evident beyond his bushy beard.

"You alright, boy?" he asks. Damien wipes a tear from his face, but nods. It's warm and hot, and smears the muck splattered on his cheek. He won't cry. He won't allow himself to.

"I'm fine, Uncle Quint." he replies.

Quint nods in approval. He offers Damien a hand, hauling the boy back to his feet with little effort. He smiles and ruffles the kid's hair. Adopting the boy was Molly's idea, but the kid has grown on him quickly. Quint reaches into his pocket and fishes out a cigarette. Smoking outdoors. Now there's a civilian luxury. He chuckles through the curls of twisting smoke; no snipers here. Damien coughs, and the veteran feels slightly guilty.

"C'mon," he grunts, pushing his way through the foliage. Damien follows, his knees raw and chafing, but eager to do his part.

They find an old birch tree, toppled across a small clearing. Birch is good for burning. Damien knows this. It doesn't pop, and the natural oil in the bark gives off a nice heat. It's a perfect find.

Quint reaches down to the webbing about his waist. He unships an old-school hatchet; it's military grade and made of stainless steel. Razor sharp, its blade glints in the dying light of the late afternoon. Damien steps back, as Quint hacks brutally into the bark. He's quick, efficient. Strong shoulders, and an even stronger swing. Though in his early fifties, his physicality hasn't left him. Damien gathers the pieces that Quint casts aside, dropping them into a synth-mesh bag which he cinches tightly.

"Should be enough." Quint concludes, hooking the hatchet back to the small of his back and wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "Starting to get dark. I'll leave a marker, and we can come back tomorrow."

Damien nods dutifully. Quint grins down at him, winks, and then begins the return journey to the truck.

The truck is a battered Turbogen IWD Spade; a lean, utilitarian vehicle, with a snarling mouth grill and earnest round headlamps. The bodywork is painted an olive green, and has been scuffed and scraped from years of service. The under carriage is caked with muck. Damien slings the bag of firewood into the rear cage, then clambers up into the passenger seat. He buckles his seatbelt automatically.

Quint is busy stowing his equipment pack, when a droning sound of jet wash zooms overhead. It buffets the trees, shaking them like an autumn wind.

Damien looks up, momentarily blinded by the Pelican's searchlight. The trees around them shake from the jet wash. Damien looks up, awe-struck, and feels a jolt of disappointment as the Pelican swings away and powers out of view. Quint frowns, and settles into the driver's seat, his concern etched into a hard frown.

"What was that, Uncle?" Damien asks.

"Trouble." Quint replies, gunning the engine.

He drives faster than usual. It makes Damien nervous. The road bumps and jolts him in his seat, as they slide about corners. The Spade's engine purrs and shakes as it copes with Quint's thinly disguised haste. The journey almost becomes thrilling to young Damien, who clings to the dash for dear life. Quint's face is set in a determined scowl.

The sun is falling in the sky. Darkness begins to fall across Hibernia.

Their home is a modest affair. A long bungalow, with a stoop and a porch and pitched slate roof, which has been patched and reinforced as the years have passed. It's a homely, welcoming place, and Damien wouldn't want to live anywhere else in a million years.

Three military-spec Warthogs are parked outside, dressed in woodland livery. Their engines purr and tick as they idle. Damien knows what they are. He has watched the holo-vids; suspension bouncing, multi-barrelled cannons flaring. He always wanted to see one in person. Now he's not so sure. They are out of place here, alien and unwelcome. Hibernia is no place for such things. A half dozen UNSC troopers mill about outside. Their faces are impassive; eyes hidden behind glare-visors; mouths chewing gum or set in a thin-lipped grimace. Damien stares at their assault rifles with awed fascination.

Molly is waiting for them on the porch. Even sitting where he is low down in the passenger seat of the Spade, Damien can see her distress.

Beside her stands a man in a long black overcoat. His head is smoothly shaven, and he is tall, taller even than Quint. His flesh is pallid, and his features nondescript. The kind of face you could pass on the street a thousand times, and never quite remember. Quint hops down from the driver's seat, forestalling Damien with a warning hand.

"Stay with the truck, kid." Quint says. He strides toward the waiting marines, jaw set; posture erect and shoulders tense.

Damien watches from afar. The troopers spread in a semi circle as he approaches. Damien notices that the machine gun mounted on the back of one Warthog isn't quite pointed at Quint, but hasn't been aimed away either. Damien tenses.

Quint is tense too. He shakes the man's hand, nods gruffly, then bows his head low, hands planted on his hips as he listens to the man in the long black coat speak. Damien is too far away to hear. Molly for her part speaks up occasionally, sharing a concerned look with her husband. More than once, all three of them glance back toward where Damien is sitting.

Paranoia grips him. Has he done something wrong? He doesn't think so, not that he remembers at least. He attends school, and does well. His homework is always in on time, and he actively engages wherever he can. He is a good boy, quick at sports and cunning too. There is no need for soldiers here. Damien is broken from his thoughts by the sound of raised voices. An argument has broken out.

Quint is in the man with the black coat's face. He's yelling, pointing over at Damien and then jabbing his finger back into the stranger's chest. The Black Coat stranger is holding his hands up, appealing for calm. His blank face betrays no emotion. Molly stands back, she's trying to calm Quint down. The marines have their weapons raised. They advance toward Quint. They're shouting too. The machine gun on the back of the Warthog has drawn a bead directly on Quint. Its operator isn't saying anything, but her mouth is set in a determined grimace. Everything is happening too quickly.

The Warthog explodes.

Something shrieks by overhead. Blinding bolts, blue and white and crackling. They stab deep into the homestead. The roof erupts in a geyser of wood chippings and flaming chunks of shingle. Everyone is thrown off their feet. Damien covers his ears and tucks his chin against his chest.

The marines rally quickly. They swing the machine guns on the Warthogs to bear and return fire at the skies above. The sound is deafening, a juddering, rattling roar that shakes Damien's ribcage. The man in the black is barking orders, pulling a snub-nosed service pistol from his greatcoat. Quint is lying down covering Molly, who isn't moving. Her head is bleeding, and her leg is twitching and pumping madly. Damien peaks over the dashboard anxiously, but flinches back as another withering torrent of plasma fire cuts across the homestead. Something bounces off the windshield and settles on the Spade's bonnet.

It's a smoking helmet. The skull in it has been stripped of flesh, and grins at Damien manically. He shrieks.

Quint appears back in the driving seat, clothing torn and forehead bleeding. An assault rifle is slung over his back, along with a webbing of grenades. He is alone.

"Keep your head down!" Quint barks, as he punches the ignition switch and floors the throttle. The wheels spin and the Spade lurches into motion. All the while, more plasma fire chops into the trees. Burning leaves flit and twist through the air like fireflies. Oily black smoke coils through the air. Everything around them is awash with fire. Madly, Damien thinks of beechwood, and the sack they gathered in the backseat.

They race down a steep hill, treating the dirt road as an air ramp. The Spade leaves the ground entirely on several occasions, its suspension rocking as the wheels crunch back to earth with a banging jolt. The wideband radio is alive with panicking voices from over a dozen settlements. It's planet wide. Something swoops overhead, bathing them once more in the balmy blue of a searchlight. It's no Pelican. It's something else entirely. Something bulbous with smooth contours and azure-purple running lights. The glow off its engines hurts Damien's eyes, but still he stares up at it with a combination of wonder and horror.

It swoops down before them, presenting its profile. Quint snarls and throws the Spade into a skid that brings it offroad. They're crashing through bushes and snapping past branches. The hull shakes and bangs. Behind them, the road erupts in another gout of bursting smoke and boiling earth. The shots would have cooked them alive.

They hit a tree. Damien's head pitches forward, catching the dashboard. It's too quick for pain. Vision swimming, he reaches up and feels something wet. He's bleeding, he realises with a start. His forehead is bleeding. The chafing burn in his scabbing knees is a long forgotten memory. Quint is unbuckling his restraints.

"Time to move, kiddo." Quint hisses, "Stay quiet, hold on to my hand. Do not let go. You got me?"

Damien manages a nod. Quint gives him a feral grin, his eyes glistening in the dim half light.

"That's my boy."

They move quickly. Quint's breath is coming in ragged gasps as he limps. His artificial hip aches like a bastard, the servos in his thigh strain to compensate. There's so little time. Damien sees that his uncle's shirt is soaked through with blood.

"Uncle Quint, you're bleeding!"

"It's not mine," Quint replies quietly, voice strained with massive emotion.

The spaceship drifts by overhead. Its searchlight throws crazed shadows through the foliage, the dribbling light dabbling the forest floor as it tries to penetrate the thick canopy. Quint pulls Damien into the cover of a gnarled oak tree. The beam sweeps past, moving on. They keep going.

They become aware of a chittering sound behind them.

Something is in the trees. Stalking them.

Quint shoves Damien to the ground, snapping the assault rifle to bear. His eyes dart back and forth as he sweeps the jungle. Another chittering caw sounds out.

Something darting fast and whisper-quick dashes past. Quint snaps off a burst, thumping rounds into the foliage. Shell casings ring to the floor. Smoke drifts out of the barrel and twists into nothingness. It's gone.

The creature barrels into Quint from behind, smashing him off his feet. The creature is tall and scrawny, with rope-like muscles and leathery chicken-skin. A tuft of feathers sprout up along its neck. It squawks, raising its strange purple rifle to fire. Quint is faster. He's on his back, the MA5B assault rifle tucked against his elbow. Hard rounds burst half of the creature's head open, decorating the tree behind it with purple ichor. It flops down to the ground, convulsing.

Quint pulls himself to his feet, soaked with sweat, panting. High on adrenaline-shock, he doesn't waste time with words. He grabs Damien and pulls him after him, keenly aware of the rustling fast approaching them from behind. Quint shoves Damien back under the bole of another tree, turning to face the foe.

There's four of them, perched on a wide tree long since collapsed. Like vultures, they snap and cackle as they eye Quint up with their beady eyes. They hold their wrist-shields up before them, warding off any incoming fire. They want him to see them. They want him to know that he's been run down and caught. That he's their prey.

Gunfire rings out, ripping two of them down from their perch. The remaining Jackals shriek in terror and dive in the foliage.

It's the man in the black coat. The coat's torn now, exposing form-fitting body armour, matte-black. Flanking him are two of the surviving marines, combat-tense and weapons smoking.

Quint lowers his rifle. After a moment, the marines follow suit.

"We've called for an evac," the man in the coat rasps, short on breath. He's younger than Quint, with a high and tight haircut. Clean-shaven to a point of seeming reptilian. "Hibernia's done."

"So I've noticed." Quint replies bitterly.

The man looks down at Damien with startling curiosity. He offers a hand to shake. Damien flinches back. The man's hand remains outstretched, hovering in the air.

"Damien. Please to meet you. I've heard so much about you."

Quint is in the man's face again, shoving him back.

"You don't touch to him, Spook. You don't look at him, you don't _speak_ to him. Just get us to that transport."

Black Coat nods, then shoulders past Quint. The marines follow with practiced precision, panning the jungle for signs of further pursuit.

The Pelican has been painted black, and blends in neatly with the night sky. Indeed, the only way to tell that it's there at all is the absence of stars behind it. The farmstead has been abandoned. It's a simple facility: some outbuildings, a dairy farm, a barn and a farmhouse. Four fully-armoured ODST stand vigil at the exit ramp of the transport. One of them totes a missile launcher.

Quint is limping even harder now. The encounter with the Jackal has left him bruised and winded. Blood runs freely from puncture wounds where the Skirmisher's claws raked his shoulder open. The Marines are edging ahead. Even Black Coat has to look back, urging them on. Damien stays with Quint, unwilling to leave his side.

They are halfway to the Pelican when the Phantom Dropship returns.

It swings low over the treeline, pintle cannon spitting. One of the outbuildings erupts, splitting apart, and the humans throw themselves flat. Aliens leap from the side of the craft; larger ones this time. There's a half dozen of them. Their voices are booming orders, growling challenges. The two marines move to engage, dauntless. There is no cover here, out in the open. They hunker down in the trampled grass, assault rifles rattling, incoming fire muck tearing up around them in steaming tufts of burnt soil. The ODST looses a volley of rockets, which catch the Phantom in the throat. A billowing geyser of fire explodes, and the ship veers wildly, ploughing into the foliage.

Black Coat grabs Damien by the wrist. He cries out in pained surprise. He looks back at Quint in desperation, terrified.

Quint is torn. He looks at the inviting hatch of the Pelican, then back at where the two marines are hunkered down in the open ground. He notes the distance to the dropship, and the aching pain in his bastard hip. Most of all, he looks at Damien.

"Go on now, kiddo." he smiles. "It's alright."

Quint reaches up and pull something from around his neck. It flashes in the light thrown up by the plasma fire behind them. He tosses it to Black Coat, who catches it neatly.

"Treat him right, you son of a bitch, or so help me I'm going to haunt your sorry ass."

Black Coat nods once, solemnly. Then he scoops up Damien over his shoulder and sprints for the Pelican. The ODST pull them aboard.

Quint winces as he throws himself flat beside the two marines.

"What's your names?" he askes, sighting up and firing. A Grunt squeals as its methane tank erupts, rocketing it into the air. One the Elites bellows angrily.

"Seymour, Private First Class." one shouts over the blaring of his assault rifle.

"Hoskins, Corporal." the other calls out with a grin, slapping a new magazine home. "Welcome to The Shit!"

"Ooh-rah," Quint grins, as he hears the Pelican pull away in the distance. He got Damien clear. That's what Molly would have wanted. His eyes are wet. Then that old familiar feeling is back. The combat-high. After years spent running form it, he's finally back home. His hand is no longer shaking.

The Elites are on them in moments.

"Semper Fi!" the marines roar, rising up to meet them.

Hoskins dies first. He does the hard work, putting a full mag into the encroaching horde. Shields fizzle, straining. Plasma fire punches him off his feet, blowing his spine inward. Seymour is next, a backhand by the commanding Elite breaking his neck in an instant. Quint's rifle runs dry as an Elite bears down on him, its shield gone, its breath stinking and hot upon his face. Quint reaches for his webbing.

It's a sharp edge, well honed. Plenty of use, but consistent. Chopped plenty of timber in its time. Oak and beech and sycamore too. The edge glints in the pulsing light of plasma fire. An upward, arcing swing, both hands on the grip. Quint grins a feral smile. Always had a good swing.

Quint buries the hatchet deep in the Elite's face. It splits like firewood. He's already dead by the time the Elite keels over, shot through in a dozen places. His hip has stopped aching at last.

The two remaining Elites step back, surprised at the sudden death of one of their own.

"Brother Kerran'ee has fallen." one of them rumbles.

"A good death." the other concludes. He is taller, with a long sloping head-crest and scorched white armour.

"A good death? To be felled by a Human is no death for a warrior!"

"It is not of Brother Kerran'ee's death I speak of," Vtan Arum'ee replies, nodding respectfully at Quint's broken form.

He looks around at the burning wreckage of their downed Phantom. Smoke wafts up from the ruined hull, as the Unngoy crew pulled themselves clear from the wreckage.

"Signal for new transport. The Hierarchs were mistaken. There is no glory to be had this day."

* * *

High in orbit, the Pelican slips into the shrouded hold of an ONI Prowler, _Innocuous Presence_. As the ship vanishes into Slipspace, Damien looks up at Black Coat. Black Coat is studying the glinting object Quint had tossed him. He holds his hand out toward Damien, palm upward. In it is a set of dog-tags.

Gunnery Sergeant Quintus Adams, 25th Infantry Battalion, UNSC Marine Corps, they read.

Damien slips them over his neck. He won't cry. He won't allow himself to. His cheeks are red, burning wet with sweat, that's all it is.

He looks up at the man in the Black Coat.

"What do I do now?" he asks quietly.


	6. Chapter IV: The Hard Way

"451's contribution to restoring Chimera's combat readiness was invaluable. He wasn't the smartest of them, or the fastest or the toughest. Not by a long shot. But he knew them inside out. Their strengths, their weaknesses. He told us what to say to them, and when to say it. That he would eventually lead them was a certainty, even in those early days.

In the event something were to happen to him, the effect on Chimera would not be measured in efficiency ratings, but in lives."

_- voice log taken from the case notes of Psych-Consultant R. Pearson, attached to the Spartan Program at Laconia, recovered 2561. _

* * *

"So you were never kidnapped at all?" Rebecca asked.

Damien shook his head adamantly. His right hand was fondling the dog-tags around his neck. The name on the tags was not his own.

"Never. I remember watching my house get strafed, seeing everyone thrown to the ground like rag dolls. How powerless I felt. Watching Aunt Molly lying there on the ground. Getting carried to the dropship. Leaving Uncle Quint behind. When they offered the opportunity to have that strength, to have that power?" Damien shook his head again, "I jumped at it."

He looked up, jaw set.

"I wanted to be here."

"So why the escape attempt?" Eric asked coldly, arms folded across his breastplate.

"Because the others asked me to." Damien replied. He leaned forward in his chair, "We knew the war was over. You could tell by the way the guards were acting; the whispers, the palm slaps and high fives. That didn't change anything for us. They still took us from bunker to bunker, safe house to safe house. Not a word of explanation. When the chance came to jump ship, the others wanted out. I wasn't going to let them do it on their own."

"So you trashed an entire UNSC facility out of what, misguided loyalty?" Rebecca asked, tapping in notes into her data tablet. "I'm sure Director Carter will love to hear that."

Damien didn't reply. He was studying the table again, expression sullen.

"You really want to be a Spartan?" Rebecca asked eventually.

"I'm halfway there, aren't I?" Damien asked, indicating his towering physique.

"Not even close, Candidate." Eric growled. "There's more to being a Spartan than simple augmentation."

Seeing the puzzled look on Damien's face, Eric began ticking points off on his fingers.

"Combat discipline. Squad coordination. A willingness to put the needs of others ahead of your own. You've got the last part right, but until you've stood shoulder to pauldron with a fire-team in the middle of a firefight, you won't get it. A Spartan? You don't even know the meaning of the word."

"Then _show me_. Look, if you're serious about getting Chimera on side, you're going to have to accept that some of them went through far worse than me to get here. There's a lot of anger you're going to have to get past. To do that, you're going to need my help."

"What are you asking for?" Eric asked. Not even the helmet filter could erase the suspicion from his voice. Damien met his gaze levelly, face solemn.

"Get these manacles off. I'm no good to you cooped up in a cell. I've known these guys for the past six years. They're my friends. I understand them better than you ever could." He smiled at Rebecca apologetically, "No offence, Doctor."

"None taken." she replied, "And as for the manacles? Consider it done."

Eric turned his head toward her sharply.

"You don't have the authorisation to order that."

"No, I don't." she answered smoothly, "But you do. You want these candidates in your selection group, come September? Work with me, Eric."

Eric studied her for a moment, saying nothing. Eventually he nodded, turning toward the one-way mirror and holding up his hand in a brief hand signal, the meaning of which became evident once Damien's wrist manacles automatically disengaged and clattered to the table. Damien rubbed at his chafed wrists, nodding in gratitude.

"Let's get one thing clear, Candidate." Eric said, leaning over him, "You try to run, try to pull anything at any stage, I'll put you and Chimera down personally. No second chances, no hesitation. Until I'm satisfied you're on the level; you do what I say, when I say. We clear?"

Damien looked at him steadily.

"As glass, Sir."

Eric nodded in approval. Rebecca was studying the data on her neural lace. The circuitry looped through the seams of her business suit, culminating in a projection bracelet encircling her wrist The graphical overlay projecting from the collar of her suit had extended, spreading out into a window display detailing the names and bio-characteristics of the remaining candidates for Fireteam Chimera.

"Four more candidates to go. What's our next move?"

"That depends." Damien said.

"On?"

"Whether you want to try the Easy way, or the Hard way?"

"What's the easy way?"

"Luke. He's always followed the group. Affable, focused when he has to be, but very much a part of the pack. Like me, he volunteered for this programme."

"Then who didn't volunteer? Who proposed the escape attempt in the first place?"

Eric answered for Damien.

"Candidate 499." the hulking Spartan said. "We've been keeping her in cryo-statis until you arrived."

"That sounds extreme."

"It was necessary." Eric replied. The tone in his voice did not brook negotiation. "We've had her thawed in advance of your arrival."

"499. That's…" Rebecca went to consult her data plate.

"The Hard Way." Damien grimaced.

"We convinced you." Rebecca replied pointedly.

"I'm one thing, Doctor Pearson. She's quite another."

With a nod from Eric, the door to Damien's cell hissed open. Rebecca rose to her feet. Tentatively, after receiving a nod of approval from Eric, Damien did the same. The candidate towered over her. She smiled up at him, doing her best to ignore how physically intimidating the young man was.

"Speaking from personal experience, Damien, I'm used to dealing with stubborn personalities."

"Then you've never met Viktorya, Ma'am."

* * *

The three of them were standing at the observation window looking into 499's cell. Like all cells on this wing, it was a sterile, colourless environment. A single toilet, a bed adorned with a single white pillow and a simple blanket. Stain proof plasticated floor lining, fully sealed. Given the blandness of the floor decoration, the most striking thing about the room was not it contained, but the conspicuous absence of what it was _supposed _to contain.

Candidate 499 was missing.

"That's not good." Rebecca declared.

Eric simply unshipped his assault rifle, toggling the safety function to "live".

Damien smiled to himself.

The two door guards posted to the cell had stacked up, ready to breach the cell. They hadn't even noticed their charge had seemingly vanished until Eric and the others had arrived. They looked at one another nervously, armour clicking as they tensed by the doorway.

"Uh, Sir, I recommend that I go in there first." Damien said.

Eric turned to one of the guards on station.

"Your call, trooper."

"The prisoner is our responsibility." one of the troopers said gruffly. His squad mate nodded in agreement.

"Upper left hand corner, as you go in." Damien recommended.

On a three-count the two sentries swept into the room. Standard search pattern; executed with admirable smoothness. Their weapons tracked up and left, to the blind corner hidden from the observation window. Damien winced. He'd gotten it wrong. Viktorya dropped down from the right, as silent and nimble as a squirrel. All Rebecca saw was a flash of pale skin and blonde hair, then violence. A jab snapped one of the troopers helmets about, cracking his faceplate and dropping him boneless to the floor. She slapped the second guard's rifle aside. Stun rounds ripped noisily along the wall, scorching the metal panelling. The girl grabbed him by the top of his flak vest, flinging him bodily against the far wall. He landed in a groaning heap, down for the count.

Viktoyra turned and glared at Eric, who had suddenly materialised in front of her.

Eric, unperturbed, had his assault rifle aimed squarely at her head. Her eyes flicked from the barrel of the gun to Eric's impassive visor. He might as well have been carved from stone.

"You didn't shoot." she scowled. Her accent was unusual to Rebecca's ears. Slavic, exotic somehow.

"You pulled your blows." Eric said. The assault rifle didn't budge. "Otherwise I would have dropped you without a second thought."

"Stun rounds won't stop me," she hissed, "Even at this range."

"Who said anything about using _stun _rounds?" Eric replied evenly.

That gave her pause. The young woman blinked. Rebecca had taken the opportunity to bravely cower behind Damien during all the commotion. Seeing the tension visibly crackle in the air, she gave the man a non-too-subtle shove. Damien blinked, realising that he was supposed to be their trump card in defusing the situation.

"Easy, Vee, it's me." Damien called out. Viktorya looked over, and Rebecca noticed a look of surprised confusion flash across the candidate's delicate features.

"Damien? What are you doing here? Who are these people?"

"Can we talk? Please?"

Viktorya looked back at the assault rifle pointed at her face. Eventually, she took a step backward, hands raised. After a long pause, Eric lowered the rifle.

"What do you want to talk about?" Viktorya asked suspiciously, hands still in the air.

Rebecca stepped forward, offering her most reassuring smile.

"You, as it happens."


	7. Interlude:Parting Moments of History III

**Parting Moments of History III - The Hiding Game**

* * *

_"One of the single most arresting things about the Outer Colonies was their sense of adventure; of being out on the frontier. It appealed to settlers of all types - traders, farmers, scouts and entrepreneurs. It was a world untamed, far removed from the stifling bureaucracy associated with centralised U.E.G rule. _

_Here on the Outer Worlds, life was what you made of it. Whole fortunes would be won and lost - between mining contracts, settlement rights, scientific endeavors unprecedented by mankind. _

_And, of course, criminality."_

_- 'On the Origins of Unrest', A Treatise on the Development of Modern Crime, E.F. Aumann (first published 2535)_

* * *

Debt collection is a bloody business. Leaving it is even bloodier.

Sergei soaked his weeping knuckles under the soothing water of the hand basin. The warm water ran thickly red, bloodied droplets pattering down onto the rim of the filthy porcelain. It was an old sink; the enamel battered and chipped. The mirror affixed to the wall above was cracked into a spider's web. He studied himself, his eyes hollow sockets under harsh shadow of the bare bulb overhead. The broken mirror reflected the gaunt, pale face back at him a thousand times over. Not the most glamorous of hideouts, but then Sergei's life had seldom been glamorous.

Sergei had signed up at the age of eighteen, fresh from a reform school on Reach. He'd served in the 37th Mechanised Armour Division; a Russian unit, and the skin at the base of his neck bore the ink to prove it. Eight brutal years of suppressing Innie groups across the surface of Saratoga had given him his skills, and the decade he'd spent afterward, as part of the Khulov-Shintaro Syndicate on Hadrian VII, had refined them. His pension was written in blood, and had been signed with his soul. Debt collections, intimidations, punishment beatings, targeted killings; it was amazing how broad a skillset military service provided. He'd been a trigger man for one organisation or another for eighteen years. Enough. It was time to get out.

It was the girl that had made the difference.

Change can be an insidious, sudden thing. His own had struck immediately and without warning, like a heart attack. Until then, he had been content to trade his skills for money. It got easier. The killings, the stabbings, the threats, the torture. It was Saratoga all over again. Only instead of pitched gun battles, mule-kicked doors and shrieking artillery, it was a back-alley here, an abandoned warehouse there. It was the intimacy of it that made it worse. He recalled an accountant, gibbering and sputtering through a nose he no longer had, begging through gnarled fingers that no longer had any nails to speak of. Red on the ledger, in a very literal way. Memories of a loan shark, face down on an electrical stove. Shrieking as the heat pads melded the bubbling flesh with the bone beneath. That sizzling sound, that bacon-fat stink. Sergei closed his eyes, scrunching them tight.

Enough. No more, for the girl's sake. And his own.

He met Natalya during a protection gig, down on the Lower East Pier. She was one of the girls brought in to do smile-work for Boss Khulov. Not a hooker, you understand. High class-girl, escort work. The ones you brought for dinner; the ones you dined and bought diamond necklaces for. There was a lot of money flowing through Saratoga, after the Insurrection was put down. The void left by the paramilitaries had been filled by the syndicates, the cartels and the triads, invisible to (or at least ignored by) UNSC eyes, who had far bigger things to worry about. As human space was glassed to ashes, the black market on this sorry outlier world was booming. Sinoviet, Misriah; you name it, chances are you could get your hands on it, for the right price and the promise of a favour. Escorting the girls was a side show. Fluff work, for somebody with Sergei's expertise.

It's the simple jobs that become complicated.

Natalya was beautiful. Long black hair, sculptural features; small firm breasts, perfectly shaped. For Sergei, thirty six years old and already jaded, it was lust at first sight. He wasn't sure if it his doing, or hers, or the bottle of vodka they shared during a long wait between gigs, but the damage was done. Viktorya showed up nine months later, a mewling, squealing mess of bright angry pink skin and tiny curling hands. The most beautiful thing Sergei had ever seen. Natalya vanished soon thereafter. Smart girl, that one. Sergei remembered looking down at tiny, cooing Viktorya, and feeling a wave of despair wash over him.

He'd done his best to hide her, of course. But how do you explain the disappearance of an asset like Natalya?

It started badly, and ended messily. Sergei was black-balled. In this industry, you're not cut out a severance package, or simply forced to take another gig off world. No, money doesn't enter into it at all., With Natalya having seemingly vanished, Sergei was found wanting for both cash and favours. The proper respect had not been shown. He was hired muscle that had developed a cancer, and needed to be excised. Permanently.

The first two hitmen had tried a subtle approach. Old friends, Olag and Spence, called him up and inviting him to share a bottle of vodka with them. To talk about the old times and remember the glory days. To put matters behind them, to talk things over. It was a short conversation. Syndicate thugs found them a day later. Spence, double-tapped to the forehead, Olag, with the top half of a vodka bottle protruding from his left eye socket.

That had been five years ago. Sergei had kept a low profile since, using whatever dwindling cash reserves he had to move from safe house to safe house. Cheap motels, semi-abandoned slums, short term pod-hotels. He stayed off the grid, in the darker shades of society that only a hired killer could navigate. Viktorya stayed with him, growing taller, smarter. She was a bright girl, and so very beautiful. Like her mother.

Sergei hawked up a wad of phlegm and spat in the sink. Blood spattered into the running water, and rolled away down the drain. He'd been bringing Viktorya for a medical check-up at one of the community shelters, when two Syndicate goons had jumped him. He'd been unarmed, and had to improvise.

Viktorya never blinked as he killed them. She never judged him. She understood the necessity of what he did.

Even then, there was so little of his darkness in her. He would buy her books, and read to her. School was never an option, not with things as they were, and so he took it upon himself to educate her. It galvanised him, and as they moved from world to world, from system to system, he went on to teach her the practical things he'd learned in life. How to watch for suspicious strangers, how to spot the warning signs. How to carry yourself in a situation, to command respect and exude power. How to move without being seen, both in a crowd and in the shadows. She was a bright child, and even at the tender age of six, learned quickly.

Sergei splashed water from his face, dabbing at his split lip with a towel. It soaked red, and he cast it into the disposal unit with a flick of his hand. His vest was bloodied from where an enforcer's knife had nicked his rib. Peeling it off, he winced as he reached for the medicine cabinet. A bio foam patch covered it neatly. For his knuckles, simple bandages sufficed. He moved back into the living room.

If one could call it that. The place was crumbling, quite visibly. The plaster was flaking, and beneath layers of peeling paint you could see where the original colony prefabs had been drilled down and soldered together. They were never meant to be permanent structures; you could tell by the way the ply-board floors warped and creaked after years of moisture had seeped through.

Viktorya was at the small table on the far side of the room across from the window. They didn't sit near windows; they're learnt that lesson after a close call on Crassus. She was colouring her picture book, filling in the lines of a UNSC-approved Cartoon Character (Barmy Army) with sloppy, jagged streaks of purple crayon. She had her headphones on, and they seemed to dwarf her tiny, porcelein features. Her blonde hair poked out between the headphones in thick strands. Sergei smiled down at her, not wishing to disturb her, and crossed over to the bed. He reached a hand underneath and fished about with his hand.

Sergei placed the black duffel back on the table, rummaging through it with a satisfied nod. Had to be prepared. Always a possibility that they were coming. They were on the third floor of the apartment building, a squad multi-unit block which was dwarfed by towering munitions factories and more high-rent skyscrapers in the city core. Six storeys total, two stair-cores providing access at either end of the hallway, the central elevator aside. He crossed over to the window, peeling the blinds aside and peaking out.

It overlooked an alleyway leading around the back of the building.

There was a car in the alley.

Sergei tensed up immediately. It wasn't the car that made him nervous. No, it was the two men standing beside it. Tall, imposing. Dressed for a funeral they would never attend. They wore jet black long-coats, but the coats themselves were bulky around the upper chest and shoulders. Ballistic padding, probably a moulded civilian model of the standard UNSC carapace gear. That they kept reaching a hand inside their coats as if to reassure themselves was the second red flag he didn't even need to see to know they who they were. Cleaners; a Syndicate Hit Squad, coming for him.

Sergei rested a hand on Viktorya's shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. She pulled her headphones off and looked up, eyes wide.

"Viktorya," Sergei said softly in Russian, so as not to startled her, "It's time to play the Hiding Game again."

* * *

Out in the alleyway, Perón sniffed as he lit up a cigarette.

"Fuck me it's cold out here." he grumbled.

"Pay attention," hissed Antonio, bull-necked man with olive skin and slick backed hair, "They say this guy's dangerous. Killed Lenny with his bare fuckin' hands. And Lenny was no pussy, man."

"What was it they called this guy again?" Perón winced through the twisting smoke. He was paler, with deadfish eyes and a sweaty pallor to his white-pink flesh.

"Duh", Antonio murmured, looking troubled.

"_Duh_, as in like 'idiot'?"

"No, you retard. 'Dooh', as in 'do a bit of fucking reading once in your life'. Christ, you Outer Colonists are all alike."

"Well what the fuck is 'Dooh'?"

"It's Serbo-Croat. One of Khulov's Serbian guys coined it. Back when the Antrillo hit went bad."

"What the fuck is Serbo-Croat?"

"It's an Earth language, you ignorant Outtie fuck." Perón guffawed.

"Oh yeah? Well then what the fuck does it mean, Smart Guy?"

Perón drew a smoothbore shotgun from beneath his greatcoat. He pumped the slide, expression wary. Antonio already had his submachine gun to hand.

"'Ghost', man," Perón was all business now as he stamped out his cigarette, expression focused, "It means 'Ghost'."

They started for the rear fire door.

* * *

Up in the adjoining apartment block, Corporal Brendan Murphy adjusted the zoom on his helmet's integrated binoculars. The VISR system flashed red as it picked up Perón' shotgun. Elevated threat detected, weapons present. Target documented and stored. Murphy activated his inter-squad com channel.

"Lead, this is Murphy."

"Go ahead, Corporal." Sergeant Randall replied.

The young ODST held a gloved hand to the side of his helmet as he scanned the two men moving toward the emergency fire escape.

"Two hostiles on the move, looks like they're going for our Package. Permission to engage?"

The voice on the other end of the link was dispassionate, professional.

"Negative, Murphy, stand by for further orders."

Corporal Fenton's voice came over the coms next. He was up on a sniper perch on the far side of the building. He had a clear line of sight on the entrance lobby of the Minerva Hotel.

"Uh, Fenton here, Sir. Four more coming in via the main entrance lobby." he tracked them in his sniper scope. His spotter, a slight ODST by the name of Watanabe, did likewise with her tracking scope.

"Concealed fire-arms and what looks to be small explosives." she reported.

"More heavies?"

"Unless there's a Goon Convention in town we don't know about, Sir."

"The Package?"

"Still not moving on thermals, Sir. Not yet."

Sergeant Randall turned to the man in the Black Coat, eyebrow raised in an unspoken question. The man, pale and inscrutable, smiled slightly and shook his head, before turning away and studying the bank of thermal monitors with his cold, reptilian gaze. Randall suppressed a shudder, and reached up to his own helmet and keyed the com. He kept the frustration from his voice.

"Solid copy, Arrow Three. Stand by and await further orders."

* * *

As soon as Sergei had touched her on the shoulder, Viktorya nodded, businesslike, and immediately packed up her things. She slid them into neatly into a pink satchel, then moved to the bed. She pulled the duvet across the floor with her. It rustled across the floor as she dragged it into the bathroom, and locked the door behind her. Then she clambered into the bathtub, padding it with the duvet beneath her. She did this calmly, without panicking or hurrying. Sergei crossed back to the window, gave a final peak out the door, then went back to the bed. He unzipped the duffel back, spilling its contents onto the bare mattress.

An M6C "Disposable"; so-called because the serial numbers having been filed away, and the fact that its hand grip would not retain fingerprints. The gun could be tossed in a hurry. Sergei picked up a sound suppressor, screwing it into place with three firm twists. He tucked the pistol into the back of his pants, and let his sweater drape over the bulge it made.

The Rudin 590 was next.

The Rudin was a Sinoviet knock-off of the celebrated MA5 design. A shorter barrel, punctuated with exhaust holes to reduce overheating and reduce carry-weight. It shared the bullpup design of its predecessor, and had an inbuilt flash suppressor. Unlike its Misriah-manufactured counterpart, the Rudin was drum fed. It was snarling, savage weapon, favoured by unsavoury types for its punishing rate of fire and long term durability.

Sergei slung the strap of the Rudin over his shoulder, then clipped a belt containing three spherical stun grenades around his midriff. He ran a hand over his shaven scalp, then moved to the front door, crouching down. The kill team knew what they were dealing with. They would be cautious. He reached down to his belt.

He had less than a minute to get this right.

* * *

Perón stepped up to the top of the stairway, the shotgun raised to cover the hall behind him. It was off-season for the hotel, and this floor should have been empty. He swept the shotgun left to right. A low ceiling, sagging floorboards. The lights flickered and pulsed a weak, sickly glow. Clear. He nodded at Antonio, who moved up beside him and crouched low, SMG raised.

Brajkovic's team were moving up the corridor, two men at a time. They were a separate crew to Perón and Antonio; former Marines, well disciplined and tightly drilled. Like Perón they were dressed in heavy overcoats concealing body-moulded ballistic armour. It wouldn't stop a hard round, not at point blank range, but it certainly beat going into a fire fight naked. Brajkovic stood back with his number two, Vladic, as the two other men took point; knees half bent, shoulders braced against the corridor wall.

Boban reached the doorjamb first. He stopped for a second, nodding silently at Perón and glancing back at Brajkovic. Brajkovic gave him a single nod.

_Go._

Boban stepped in front of the door. It was a flimsy, rickety thing. He took a half step back, took a breath, and raised his boot. It struck home. The door exploded outward in a blinding flash of burning splinters, hurling Boban backward. Lighting lanced into the kill team's eyes. A bursting ring drowned out all sound.

Sergei swung out of the room on the opposite side of the corridor, ducking low and weapon sighted. The Rudin blurted as he unloaded into the two point men. Centre mass, point blank range. Boban jerked and spasmed as the rounds chopped into the small of his back. He collapsed forward into the splintered doorway of the room he was originally trying to assault. The second man - Perón never got a chance to learn his name - had been killed instantly. The recoil from Sergei's third burst ripped his throat out the back of his neck. He flopped to the ground, clutching at his neck and gurgling. Already dead, but without the sense to know it.

Sergei dove back into the doorway just in time. The threshold was torn apart by the answering deluge of return fire, reducing the frame to matchsticks and wood pulp. It was textbook stupidity on the assaulter's part. Positioned as they were at opposite ends of the corridor from one another, the ricocheting rounds arced off the walls and snapped toward either party. One skipped against Antonio's ear, tearing it from the side of his head in a bloody burst that arced across the peeling green wallpaper. He crashed back to the bottom of the stairwell, shrieking bloody murder. Perón threw himself flat, as Brajkovic and Vladic's rounds ripped past overhead. Powdered plaster coated him in a fine white dust.

Miraculously, Boban was still alive. Spine-shot, and doubtlessly paralysed from the legs down, but alive.

He was a mule of a man, with the strength to match. Boban pushed himself over on to his back, bellowing like a stuck bear. He raked the room Sergei had retreated into with wildly inaccurate sprays. Taking advantage of the mayhem, Brajkovic and Vladic surged forward, advancing on the ruined doorway. Vladic grunted as he hauled Boban out of harm's way and into the room opposite Sergei's position. Brajkovic primed a grenade, flicking it around the corner into the ruined doorway. He flinched back as the shrapnel cloud burst detonated with a dull crump, then shoved the snout of his assault rifle around the corner, firing blind.

Something grabbed his hand.

With a snarl, Sergei drove the combat knife clean through Brajkovic's wrist, pinning him to the wall. Brajkovic shrieked, and was still shrieking when Sergei stepped out and planted the smooth muzzle of the suppressed Disposable against his eye-socket. There was a dry _pfft_ sound, and Brajkovic collapsed in a boneless heap, the weight of his body ripping his hand free from the pinning knife. In a flash, Sergei had vanished back into the drifting gun smoke curling out of the doorway.

Perón looked on in dumbfounded horror.

Vladic snarled and charged the doorway, stepping over Brajkovic's corpse, blazing from the hip. He was operating on blind hot rage by this point; fuelled by an animalistic desire to avenge his comrades rather than any rational tactical thinking. He caught himself once he found himself standing in the middle of the room, his spent rifle clacking audibly. Vladic jerked around, panting, desperately confused. The room was an empty bombsite The walls were studded with shards of glinting shrapnel and gouged with bullet holes. The bed was a smouldering crater of twisted metal and burning linen. There was no one here.

Vladic turned about. Sergei was peeking over the lip of a battered bathtub in the adjoining ensuite. The circular muzzle of the Disposable was staring right at him, like a baleful eye.

"Oh, shit."

His last words.

Perón heard that piercing _pfft-pfft_ noise again, that dry-spitting cough, and something heavy crashed to the floor. Behind him, Antonio was still whimpering as he pawed the tattered ruin of his ear. Perón looked back up into the ruined corridor, then with a fumbling hand keyed the emergency com link pinned to his coat's lapel.

"Backup, I need backup!"

Perón didn't wait for a response. He rose shakily to his feet, the shotgun trembling in his sweat-soaked hands. Boban had finally stopped moving. Brajkovic's legs were half poking out of the doorway on the left. Sickeningly, one of the legs was twitching, the foot jerking left to right and back again. A thick pall of smoke was venting freely from the two doorways, twisting in the centre of the hall. Smoke alarms finally triggered, and the hotel's antiquated sprinkler system finally kicked into gear. Perón jolted from the cold-shock as he was soaked in the downpour. He blinked water-slick sweat from his eyes, as he inched along the wall toward the doorway. Step by step, he got closer. The cops would be here soon. Jesus, he had to get this done quickly.

He peaked around the corner.

Vladic's body lay flat on his back in the centre of the room, legs splayed. Two need rounds had been plugged in his forehead. The back of his head was a steaming meat-mass of bone and tissue. Perón was thankful that the man's matted hair covered most of it. The bathroom in the ensuite was empty. Sergei was gone. Perón breathed a sigh of relief, the tension flooding out of him.

Something cold and hard pressed against the back of his head.

"Piece of shit." a Russian voice hissed in his ear, "You threaten me? You threaten my daughter? Fuck you."

Gibbering in panic, Perón dropped the shotgun as he raised his hands in the air, begging for mercy. The shotgun hit the ground roughly. No safety catch. The weapon triggered, blowing Perón's own foot off.

It also saved his life.

Perón shrieked as he hit the ground hard, his left foot a ragged stump below the ankle. Sergei, shocked at the suddenness of it, stumbled backward out into the corridor.

Crouching at the top of the fire stair, his hand a ragged claw clutching the side of his bloodied head, Antoino opened up on Sergei with the sub-machine gun. A trio of rounds punched into Sergei's chest, cutting through the body plate like it were moist tissue. The ground rushed up and slammed into Sergei's back. Suddenly, he was staring at the ceiling, the sensation of the sprinklers on his face.

"Hah! Got you, you fuck!" Antonio snarled, triggering another blurt of the machine gun. It was woefully inaccurate, and tore into the wall beside Sergei. Sergei fumbled for the Disposable. He'd dropped it. His hands grasped about for it. His fingertips only found sodden floorboards. Antonio appeared in his field of vision, backlit by the flickering lights overhead. The barrel of the SMG loomed large above him, like the mouth of the tunnel.

"Any last words?!" Antonio leered in to his face, eyes bulging.

Sergei closed his eyes.

"Freeze!"

The ODST fire team was an armoured wall of opal blue visors, hardened black armour and glinting gun barrels that filled the entire corridor. Antonio looked up with a yelp, soiling himself. He went to raise his hands in surrender. Panicked hands that were still grasping the sub-machine gun.

"Drop him!" a filtered voice barked.

The wall of bullets lifted Antonio off his feet, shredding him mid air and painting him in great splashing arcs across the ceiling. His ruined corpse flopped to the ground, all but unrecognisable.

"Clear!" Corporal Murphy yelled, lowering his assault rifle and rising to his feet.

The corridor was a charnel house.

The smoke alarm had finally been silenced, and police had cordoned off the building. ODST troopers stood at each end of the corridor, impassive above the twisting coils of drifting gun smoke. The air stank of cordite, soot and wet wood.

The Man in the Black Coat stood over Sergei, looking down at him. The expression on his face was disappointment rather than pity. Sergei was drawing breath in ragged, shuddering gulps. Blood pulsed out of his mouth, dribbling down his cheek. Not long now.

"I wanted to see if the rumours about you were true, Duh." the man said, in flawless Russian, "Alas it seems you are only human. Still, five men. A good tally, wouldn't you say?"

"ODST," Sergei gasped. Blood welled up from his mouth. "Must have wanted me pretty bad."

The Man in Black Coat adopted an expression of mock surprise.

"Oh we weren't here for _you_, Sergei." he said, "We were here for _her_. That medical check up you took her to; it confirmed everything we needed to know. A magnificent specimen. Truly magnificent. You should be proud."

One of the ODST were leading Viktorya out of the bathroom. They kept her headphones on her, and had wrapped her in the duvet. When she saw Sergei, laying amidst the fallen bodies of the kill team, she cried out, reaching for him. Her headphones slipped, clattering against the timber floorboards. Shattering.

_"Nata!"_ she screamed, squirming in Fenton's arms like a cat that doesn't want to be picked up."Daddy!"

He reached for her, choking.

"Get her out of here!" The Man in the Black Coat barked in English. "Now!"

Viktorya was hauled out of sight. Black Coat glowered after the ODST, then looked down at Sergei once more.

"Of course, we could take you with us. Offer you a job. A man with your skills... you could find gainful employment working in service to the public once again. But her medicals were off the charts. She has far more potential than you could even imagine."

Black Coat knelt down over him. Idly, he picked up the Disposable, which had been discarded on the floor.

"Ah, an M6C. Excellent choice. Neat, accurate. Simple to maintain. The choice of a true professional." he twisted the small black pistol, studying it in the dim light.

"Of course I never saw the appeal of a grip like this. Such things can be traced through their suppliers. If you really wanted to save time you would have dispensed with such silly things like fingerprints long ago."

Black coat held up his palm toward Sergei. True enough, his finger prints had all been seared away by laser scalpel. Utterly smooth. Without a whorl, without a single identifying trace.

"Still, you can appreciate how fitting this is. You know the other name for a M6C kitted out like this? A man like you? Of course you do."

Smoothly, Black Coat levelled the gun at Sergei's head.

"Disposable."

Two rounds to the head ended Sergei's pain. Black Coat tossed the Disposable onto the dead man's corpse with a dispassionate air, oblivious to the stares of the ODST commando around him. Eventually, Murphy spoke, voice neutral, restrained. He knew better than to tangle with an ONI spook. They all did.

"Uh, Sir, we've got a live one here."

Perón's leg had been clamped with a medical seal. He looked up, face devoid of colour and utterly terrified.

"Well what do you expect me to do?" Black Coat asked, stepping over Sergei's corpse and making for the exit with a sweep of his coat. "Take care of it."

Peron's eyes widened as the ODST reached for their weapons.


	8. Chapter V: Impetuous Tirade

_"Assembling a team of Spartans is a delicate process. While many of the teams were to be allocated distinct combat roles uniquely suited to their individual skill sets - scouting, infiltration, personnel protection - a number of the teams originating out of Laconia were intended for catch-all direct action. A blend of talents, designed to adapt and respond to any given combat situation. These teams were a unique breed, a throwback to the Spartan II program which had preceded them. Inventive, adaptive, and - when necessary - voracious._

_That one of these teams would be designated Chimera seemed only appropriate."_

/Audio-log transcript from the personal notes of Director Idris K. Carter, as recorded by Kaizen, integrated combat assistant assigned to Laconia Operations (retrieved 2561) /EYES ONLY

* * *

They spoke for hours. Damien would lead the conversation, his manner familiar and conversational, with more personal questions guided by Rebecca. Eric would interject from time to time, mainly to press on a technical point.

Viktorya for her part sat tremendously still, perched on the edge of her chair. She never lost that animalistic air of pent-up rage, but then that was as much a part of her character as her laser-accurate stare, the type that took in everything and missed nothing. She sat bolt upright, like a startled wolf. Her answers were to the point, terse. They had to tease her story from her, sentence by sentence, word by painstaking word.

Rebecca looked at the girl, noticed the burn marks on her arms where cryo-burn had chafed the skin red-raw, and felt a wave of sympathy for her. Here was a person who could have done anything they wanted. An athlete, a leading businesswoman, even a catwalk model, should she have so desired. Like the other Chimera candidates, Viktorya had won the genetic lottery; only the prize had not been riches or fame or any promise of lifelong comfort, but instead abduction and induction into a clandestine military program. That such a program had been deemed necessary - no, was_ proven_ necessary - spoke volumes about the unforgiving universe they lived in.

At the end of the interview, Viktorya gave her word that she would commit to the program, on one condition.

"This man. The one in the black coat, with the dead eyes. I want to know who he is. Where he is. Any files you have on him, you give them to me."

"And when you find what you need to know?" Rebecca asked.

Viktorya didn't blink. Her voice was low, dangerous.

"I'm going to kill him. Slowly. And you will not stop me. On this condition, I will fight for you."

Rebecca grimaced and turned to Eric.

"Your call, Tin Man."

Viktorya's watchful expression was mirrored in the golden, impassive visor.

"We don't train soldiers motivated purely by revenge." Eric said bluntly, "Especially not Spartans. You want to avenge your father? Extra points for drama, but no sell. We're a military operation, not some privileged snot-nosed CAMS detail. You have the potential to become part of the single most effective fighting force in known space, bar none. You want in? Stow the baggage and step up. Join the program, get in line, and I'll see what I can do to help you.

Viktorya bristled in her chair. Eric was still speaking, his gauntleted hand raised to forestall any vitriol.

"When I say we'll look into who this guy is, I mean it. Kaizen is our integrated combat A.I., brought in to monitor and streamline our operations on Laconia. She's O.N.I. tech. We've already pulled up everything we have on Operation Arrowhead, but that doesn't mean she can't find information elsewhere."

"Elsewhere?" Viktorya echoed vaguely, eyes narrowed.

"I'm not at liberty to say." Kaizen's voice answered through Eric's helmet speakers. The effect was disquieting, until the projector mounted on the side of Eric's helmet fizzled into life and beamed a two inch replica of Kai onto the table. She bowed respectfully. Viktorya stared back at her, expression unreadable.

"And if you find anything?" she asked. Eric answered this time.

"There will be an investigation. Due process. A hearing, if there's any merit to what you've told us."

"A hearing is not _justice_."

"And a government-trained super soldier settling scores is? Look at your position, Candidate. Consider it carefully. The powers that be can leave you to rot here in cryo-sleep, or you can have half a shot at finding this man."

"Vee, they'll find the guy. We can't ask for more than that." Damien interjected, "Without their assistance, you'll never find him. It's the best chance you've got. Besides, I could use your help on this - I don't want to go into this program alone."

Viktorya studied him for a moment. He held her gaze, his blue eyes earnest but determined. After a long pause, she nodded.

"What do you need from me?" she asked Eric.

The Spartan leaned forward, fingers steepled before his visor. The chair beneath him was reinforced steel, but even so, the legs bent slightly under the weight of his armoured bulk.

"We've cleared you for use of the training facilities on the surface. You've got ten weeks to shake the freeze-burn before the program gets underway. The other candidates going into this program will have spent the past three months surviving induction. You'll have to play catch up."

Eric's visor turned toward Damien, "That goes for you too, 451."

"Sir."

"And try to keep out of the way of the marines on base. There's a lot of bad blood left over from that last stunt you pulled."

The two candidates nodded. Focused, obedient. Rebecca did her best to hide her shock.

"What about the others?" Viktorya asked. "Chidi and Rash? Luke?"

"We'll call for you when we need you." Rebecca assured him.

"Who are you speaking with next?" Damien asked, curious.

"Candidate 492, uh - Rashid Datar."

"Ah, Rash."

That provoked a frown on Rebecca's part.

"Why 'Rash'?"

Damien managed a half smile, scratching at his jaw.

"We call Rashid 'Rash' because he's cautious by nature. Conservative, deliberating. He's the smartest of us by a hundred light years. Coming out of a hole like Cairo III, he only survived this long by analysing each and every situation three time's over. It can make him slow to trust.

"Rash does not make mistakes." Viktorya agreed.

"Hesitation isn't a good trait to have in a Spartan," Eric growled.

"No, Sir, but if you've ever seen him with a piece of tech in his hands, you'll see his value." Damien's expression was earnest, "Man's a genius, a force multiplier. He's the reason the lights still don't properly function on the third sub level of this facility, six months on."

"That's classified information, Candidate."

"Then I suggest the guards whisper to each other a little quieter, Sir." Damien smiled.

"And Chidinma?" Rebecca asked, taking notes.

"Tougher prospect to win over, but a necessary stepping stone. Chidinma and Rash escaped the fighting in Cairo III together. They've been tight ever since. Chidi's tough - something of an older sister to Rash. I'd start with her. Get her on side? He'll follow out of loyalty, no question."

"And how do we do that?" Rebecca asked.

The candidate turned to the armoured Spartan.

"Got any flight simulators, Sir?" Damien asked.

"There's a training suite for Sabre pilots over in Hangar Bay Two. Why?"

This time both candidates grinned, wolfishly.

* * *

Candidate 483 was the dark-skinned girl Rebecca had seen in the archived footage in Director Carter's office. The one with the glare that could strip paint from a starship. She wasn't as tall as Damien or Viktorya, but at over six and a half feet, her height was considerable. Encased in an armoured Gen II suit, Chidinma would appear taller still.

The cell, large enough for someone of Rebecca's modest height and stature, could have been considered spacious, even roomy. It had not been built with a would-be Spartan in mind.

She was sat at the end of her cell, legs folded beneath her in a meditative pose. Her head was smoothly shaven, with only the faintest suggestion of stubble having been allowed to grow back. She held her chin high, with a posture that was almost regal. Like Viktorya, her frame was that of a gymnast; with a lean corded muscle that favoured lithe grace over bulky mass. Her baleful glare was currently doing its level best at inducing spontaneous human combustion on the part of her captors.

"What are you doing here with these people, Damien?" Chidinma asked, voice laden with suspicion.

She was of Nigerian extraction, her diction precise and accent melodious. She had smiled warmly at Damien when he had arrived, but any warmth had quickly frosted over once Rebecca and Eric had appeared behind him. Viktorya was absent, having been sent to medical to have her thaw-burn treated.

Once Eric stepped into the cell, his head bowed low to avoid catching the door frame, Chidinma's spine stiffened and her knuckles tightened, like a rattlesnake poised to strike. She eyed them warily.

"Easy, Chidi," Damien said, approaching her, "Just here to see how you're getting on."

A light frown knitted her brow.

"I am incarcerated in an underground military installation, Damien," Chidi replied stiffly, "I have not seen the outside of this cell, much less the open sky, in over six months. How do you think I am 'getting on'?"

Damien settled himself down on the bunk beside her, forearms resting on his knees and fingers laced together. The two of them alone were enough to make the cell feel crowded.

"And what if I said that not only could you see the sky again, but that you'd get a chance to get back in the air?"

Chidi didn't react, not immediately. But even Rebecca, a total stranger to Candidate 483, saw the hungry glint in her eyes. She looked up at the Spartan and the psychologist.

"Can Damien and I have a moment to speak?" she asked.

Rebecca and Erik looked at each other.

"Alone?" Chidi pressed.

Rebecca beckoned to Eric, and the two of them stepped out of the cell. Once the door slid shut, Chidi turned to Damien. Her expression was a mixture of concern and pity. Her tone softened.

"Damien, these people are _not_ your friends."

Damien glanced at the closed doorway, then back at his friend.

"And what would you have me do, Chidi? Sit in a cell and study my hands for the rest of my life? I've been here three years longer than you. You asked me to try and help you and Rash escape, and I did. We tried. We had our shot at getting away and, we blew it. This is Plan B."

"_Capitulate wholesale?_ Damien, that is _not_ a Plan B."

He stood up to his full height, emphasising his augmented physicality. He spread arms out wide. In the narrow confines of the cell, his arms were almost long enough to touch either wall.

"Look at us, Chidi. I've broken two of the sparring machines in the Training Room; Viktorya can run a two minute mile and _barely break a sweat_. When we hit those guards during our escape? They didn't just fall down when we hit them. They _broke_. We're not exactly normal anymore. Even if we did get away, where would we go?

He laughed, bitterly.

"I mean, where could we _possibly_ hide?"

"I remember Cairo III, Damien," Chidi said in a quiet voice, "I remember what Rashid and I had to go through, to try and escape the war. These men, with their screens and their tests and their injections, they would have us face that war again. That is not something I am eager to do. Not again."

Damien hunkered down on his knees. He rested a hand on her shoulder and giving it a reassuring squeeze.

"You won't have to face it alone, Chidi. You, me, Rash and the others; we'll come through this together. I promise. As far as I can tell, that doctor's genuinely on our side."

Chidi raised an eyebrow, "And the Spartan?"

A conspiratorial smile tugged at Damien's mouth..

"Is an arsehole, granted. But you can't win 'em all."

She grinned.

"You know, Damien, you have always had a way of cheering me up."

"That's what I'm here for. Now how about we get you back in the saddle?"

"On one condition my friend."

"I think we've used up all the conditions we're allowed."

"A favour then, to a friend. Consider it my sign-on bonus."

"Name it. I'll talk to them, see what I can do."

"I want access to a simulator. One with access to the wider base network."

"Ah, bribery. I thought you might resort to that."

"Well?" Chidi arched an eyebrow, amused. He offered a lop-sided grin in return.

"And it's already taken care of."

* * *

Chidi's stepped out of the Entrance Hall's lobby and out into the open sunlight. She tilted her head back, eyes closed, basking in the warmth upon her skin.

She smiled up at the sky, oblivious to the stares of the guards and administrative staff around her. Spartans were held in high regard, and with good reason. But to see a former prisoner released and given free reign so readily unnerved them. Many of the troopers around base had friends who were still nursing broken bones and cracked ribs. Many fingered their side-arms by reflex.

The others were waiting for her in a transport LRV, the engine purring as it idled. They watched her as she turned about, arms extended, breathing in the fresh air. Months of reprocessed air took their toll on one's disposition. To Chidi, the fresh air, combined with the raw military stink of boot polish and hydroleum was almost intoxicating.

"Why does she want to visit the flight simulators?" Rebecca asked Eric quietly.

"Flying is what Chidi does." Damien answered from the back seat.

Rebecca noticed that the young candidate was squinting more than he otherwise should have been. The morning was bright, true, but not piercing to a point where one needed sunglasses. His augmented eyes were unused to the sharp brightness of the morning light. She noted the artic-white pallor of his skin. He kept looking up, staring at birds as they flew overhead. Being outdoors was evidently a novelty to him too.

"She grew up in one of the poorer sections of Cairo III." Damien was saying. He raised a hand up to shield his eyes as they adjusted to the glare. "Lot of slums, tough living. It's an Innie riddled hell-hole, from what little she used to tell us. The only source of entertainment was the local holo-arcade. Started out on vid-games, then graduated to full on simulators. When the Covenant hit in '49, it's how she and Rash got out. Chidi's had a thing for flying ever since."

"Candidate 451's assessment is correct." Kaizen's voice buzzed in Rebecca's. "Candidate Chidinma has logged an inordinate amount of time on UNSC approved flight simulators. Her test scores are remarkable, for a self-taught pilot."

"So why not send her to a flight school then?" The doctor asked. "Why bother with the Spartan program at all?"

"Candidate 483's potential was deemed to be more useful in the Laconia Program." Kaizen's voice filtered out through Eric's helmet speakers, "Like all Spartan 4 candidates, individuals have been screened for genetic compatibility within existing acceptable thresholds. Any flight skills will supplement her capacity as a field operator."

The discussion was cut short when Chidi appeared beside them, looking cheerful and invograted.

"I am ready." she smiled.

"Then let's see what you can do, Candidate." Eric replied, reaching for the gear stick.

* * *

Hangar Bay 2 was situated on the southern end of the base, immediately beside the expansive runway for space-bound traffic. The area was littered with cargo containers and docked landing craft. All forms of atmospheric craft had settled on the runway: transport loaders, Pelican dropships and Kestrel-pattern V-TOLs, bulk haulers and lighter tug vessels. In the distance, processor vanes spun like skeletal windmills.

Overshadowing it all was the cyclopean orbital loading tether, a vast metal structure of concentric rings stretching high up into the upper stretches of the atmosphere; heavily-ribbed and dotted with winking running lights. If the star port was the heart of the Laconia Facility, then the orbital tether was its aorta.

Eric steered the Warthog in, winding between jogging troopers and bustling loading teams. He had to stop to let a Mantis assault walker stalk past, its heavy footfalls shaking the pavement. The unit had been tasked with cargo-lifting duties, and retro-fitted with a set of loading claws as required. Its weapons had been cowled with dust covers. Rebecca craned her neck up at it, mouth agape. To have to face such a thing in combat terrified her. The Spartan candidates also looked on, in admiration of the vehicle's power. To Rebecca, the Mantis provoked a feeling of a horror-filled awe. The candidates in the back seat were mesmerised by it too. It even drew a nod from Eric, out of professional courtesy; from one killer to another.

They disembarked outside the central terminal building, an imposing tower of sunlit glass and polished steel.

As a central hub for transport off-base, the building was a hive of activity. Off duty loader pilots, service personnel and technical engineers hurried to and fro, chattering in excited tones. Even amidst the hustle and bustle, you could spot the flight jocks from a mile away. For starters they were one of the few people on base not sporting a high and tight haircut. Their trademark aviator glare-glasses and rolled up flight jackets formed part of an unofficial uniform. That, and the exaggerated swagger they adopted whilst sauntering about the base. There was a thick stink of strong cologne and superiority in the air. More than one of them gave Rebecca a leering, cocky look. The lingering stares got old fast. Rebecca soon decided that the wax-polished floors of building stank more of bullshit than cologne.

Eric led the way, his armoured bulk parting the crowds with its usual trademark subtlety. The fighter jocks even stepped aside, pulling their sunglasses off as the giant strode by. The two towering candidates behind him also drew stares.

They arrived at the Testing Bay. Simulators pods lined the walls; enclosed units, gun-metal grey in colour, which fully encased cadets in an armoured capsule containing an isolated suspended gravity field. All forms of spacecraft could be simulated here, ranging from fast attack craft to lightly skinned scouting ships. While the majority of sims would run the test candidates against simulated A.I. opponents, volunteers could step up to provide a more dynamic challenge.

A flight officer intercepted them the second they stepped out onto the hangar's smooth concrete floor. The pips on his jacket indicated he was a Naval Flight Officer. Nichols, according to his name badge.

"This deck is cleared for Intermediate and Advanced Training personnel only. You're not supposed to be here." the man called out as he approached, nose buried in his data pad. Rebecca hid a smile. The man had simply heard them coming, and responded by reflex. He hadn't even bothered to look up.

Eric's shadow fell over him.

"Spartan 239 reporting for candidate preparation." his filtered voice managed to be menacing even without inflection, "I have clearance."

The flight officer looked up, eyes bulging. Eric looked down at him.

"Uh, yes, so you do. A-apologies, Sir. Proceed."

Rebecca offered him a comforting smile and the man rallied somewhat.

"I, uh, I should warn you, Sir. There's a simulation about to take place. Flight Lieutenant Prescott is taking Kite Squadron up for a sortie. Dissimilar Combat Training, with one of the cadet groups. Any volunteers will likely be rolled into the Op-For side."

"Just tell me where to go." Chidi said, stepping forward. The flight officer looked at her, puzzled.

"He's not flying." Chidi explained boldly, stepping past the man and making for the simulators, "I am."

Chidi picked up a flight helmet, buckling it on as she clambered up into one of the simulator pods. With a wheeze of steam, the pod's lid closed down around her, effectively sealing her inside. There was a whirr, and the pod rose up on a support rail affixed to the wall. The lambent green occupancy light beneath the pod flicked to an angry red.

Rebecca and the others made their way to an observation room overlooking the simulator bay. It gave a commanding view of the dozens of simulator pods lining the walls. A holo screen gave a visual representation of what the pilots sitting the examination were experiencing.

Nestled inside the pod, Chidinma looked around at her surroundings. The unit had yet to power up, and the instruments were inert. Suddenly her seat shifted forward, and the controls rolled backward into the front of the pod. Two large handlebars slid forward in their place, the grips canted to either side in a gentle slope.

Purple Covenant activation runes flashed up before her face.

Chidi smiled, placing her hands on the handle grips. A flick of her thumb brought the rest of the instrumentation online with a pulsing green flash. The handle grips trembled with power, systems ready.

_Game on._

* * *

"Tighten up, Kite Seven, you're drifting. Watch for solar crosswind."

"Copy, Kite Lead, adjusting."

Ensign Richard Cotter kicked himself as he nursed the stick upward. The pod's simulated gravity trembled realistically. Almost too realistically. He felt the airframe shudder as it cleared the atmosphere. Take-off sequence had been smooth, the hull barely jolting as it separated from the launch capsule. The jolt made Cotter conscious of the three shock prods nestled against the small of his back. The prods were wired into seat of his flight chair. If he got stung, they would deliver a nasty jolt, even bruising. As good an incentive not to get iced as any. For the third time in as many minutes, Richard went to wipe the sweat from his brow and cursed when his thick flight gloves bumped against the visor of his helmet. _Focus, Richie_. This was not the time to screw up.

Adding to the sense of pressure was the presence of Wing Commander Loic Laurent. As in Loic "L'Oiseau" Laurent. Loic the Bird; _The_ _Shrieking Eagle_. Forty-seven career kills, an ace _nine_ times over. Harmony, Reach, Earth; the man's exploits were legendary, his ability and combat record in a cockpit unparalleled. That he had been appointed as Senior Flight Instructor to Laconia Academy didn't help matters. The commander was taking a backseat role to Kite Leader, Flight Lieutenant Prescott, more content to observe rather than lead. Prescott's voice had a tense edge to it. Cotter felt that he wasn't the only one being monitored here.

The simulation had placed Kite Squadron in the thin stretches of Laconia's upper atmosphere. The planet below them stretched out, a vast whorl of blues and greens, shocked with white cloud cover. Atmospherics were minimal this high up, but still a factor to consider. The void ahead of them was a riot of colour; a rich coiling canvas of twisting purples and autumnal greens. It was peaceful, suspiciously so.

"Alright Kites, stay sharp. We know how this story ends." Prescott's voice crackled over the com. Cotter dialled back his speed a bit, drifting his Sabre to snuggle high on Kite Six's port wing. He could see Cadet Alexander's helmet in the cockpit, as the pilot reached up and adjusted a dial above her head. Cotter could even make out the stylised orange eagle Alexander had stenciled above her visor. The level of detail the simulator projected was staggering.

Ahead of them, the UNSC _Impetuous Decision_ glided silently above Laconia's surface. Four hundred and seventy eight metres of smoothly polished Titanium-A battle plate, the Stalwart-class vessel looked as though it had been brushed with chrome. In reality the silver tints were hull scarring, its pitted surface a grim memento from the _Impetuous'_ long and storied service record. Its point defence cannons tracked, silently sweeping the stars for lurking threats.

It was just as well, for the_ Impetuous_ was about to have a very bad day altogether. In approximately thirty seconds, the SDV Corvette _Furious Tirade_ would revert from Slipspace, disgorging a wave of fighters to try and cut the UNSC frigate apart. Sabre teams would engage the _Furious Tirade_'s fighter screen, cut through the _Tirade_'s shields and kill the cruiser's engines, buying the _Impetuous_ time to effect an escape jump to Slipspace. That was the plan, anyway.

The _Impetuous_ _Tirade_, as the simulation's nickname went. A wry comment on the reactions it inspired on frustrated instructors who ran the simulation. It was a classic scenario, notorious amongst UNSC cadets for its difficulty. The path to career advancement started here. Candidates would be tested on communication, marksmanship and maneuvering as a cohesive fighting force. Combat scores would reflect their standings within their class group. Their standing in their class group would dictate their pecking order within the squadron.

Victory conditions were simple: the _Impetuous Decision_, laden down with wounded and medical supplies, was to survive the jump to Slipspace, in accordance with The Cole Protocol. Nothing else mattered. It sounded simple, but complicating matters were the sheer number of fighters the simulation threw at prospective candidates. Most of the bandits were light skinned Banshees, nimble but unshielded. They were easy prey to the murderous cannons and robust shields of a Sabre. The simulation, randomised as it was, also threw in Phantom troop transports and heavier Seraph-pattern strike fighters in to keep candidates on their toes. That many of the enemy craft would be piloted by fliers from competing squadrons kept matters interesting.

Kite Squadron comprised three flights of four Sabre starfighters. After years of strenuous testing, the YS-1000 Sabre remained a stalwart servant of the fleet; serving as a space superiority fighter. With a robust shield system and an advanced integrated targeting suite, the Sabre was sold and dependable. Only the newer Broadsword fighter offered greater maneouverability. Richard's ship, _Diamond Tip_, was a hefty craft; with a thick central fuselage and a streamlined cockpit. With twin 30 mm cannons and a complement of missiles, the Sabre was a multi-purpose strike fighter capable of packing serious punch. Like the rest of Kite Squadron, _Diamond Tip_ had been dressed in the olive drab livery standard for a craft of this kind. Richard formed part of Two Flight, under the command of Flight Lieutenant Nichols, a two-tour veteran.

"Energy readings spiking." Nichols reported, his voice icy calm. "Brace for Slipspace rupture."

As if on cue the empty void ahead of them split apart in a pulsing flare of blue light, and something vast and sleekly curved slide through, as silent and deadly as a shark. Without warning or provocation, dozens of small flitting shapes disgorged from the ship's fighter bays. Banshees, recurve wings and oily purple hulls. The _Furious Tirade_ had arrived, and with it, its fighter escort.

"Detecting multiple impulse drive signatures." Kite Two reported, her voice steady. "Incoming fighters."

"Unit count?" Commander Laurent asked mildly, as though asking for a cup of tea.

"I count twenty six."

"Twenty eight, Cadet. Adjust ladar for return bounce off the corvette's hull."

"Sir." Two's voice was tight. Nobody wanted to argue with a legend.

"Kite Squadron, move to engage." Prescott ordered sternly "Keep those fighters off the Impetuous."

Kite Squadron swept up in a loop, coming in low over the Impetuous' hull. The point defence cannons swivelled to face the oncoming fighter screen. The Impetuous rolled about, presenting its nose toward the _Tirade_, minimising its target profile.

"_Impetuous_ to all Sabres. We are plotting Slipspace jump coordinates now. Buy us time."

"Alright, Two Flight, this is it." Kite Five, Flight Lieutenant Nichols was saying over the Two-Flight internal com channel. "Sound off and let's get to work."

"Kite Six," Cadet Alice Alexander said, her voice piqued with tension, "Weapons primed."

"Kite Seven," Richard said, his voice sounding raspy over the internal mic in his helmet, "Systems green."

"Kite Eight," Cadet Ernie Campbell was as chirpy as ever, "hot to trot!"

Twinned dots of blue light marked out each oncoming Banshee. This far out, it was impossible to mark out the iridescent purple of their hulls by eye. The pulse drives dotted the void, like a swarm of livid fireflies. There were too many to count. Cotter took a deep breath, his eyes flicking from the weapons display to the ladar scope.

"Four thousand metres, closing."

"Locking targets, brace for contact."

"Three thousand metres." Kite Nine reported. Ashley's voice was rock steady. Cotter wished he felt the same.

Two thousand metres. The target indicator blinked green. There was no such thing as weapon range in a space brawl, but the constraints of the targeting software led to an ideal kill-range. That enemy had just entered that range.

"Light 'em up, Kites."

Richard flicked his weapons over to guns. The targeting reticule blinked red. He squeezed the firing stud.

Hard rounds ripped out toward the oncoming swarm, blistering white flashes against the blackness of space. Three of the oncoming Covenant craft exploded outright, their hulls torn asunder as Kite Squadron's cannon fire sliced home. A fourth flew on for a few seconds, before simply peeling apart. Return plasma fire flashed past, spitting and slicing toward them. Shields flared, angry and sparking. Cotter's ship shuddered as a trio of shots lanced across his forward shield.

"Break! Break! Break!"

Kite Squadron's formation exploded out in a chaotic starburst. The flocks of ships became an angry brawl. Stabbing plasma light glanced by Richard's canopy, and his shields flared. He rolled to port, throwing the Sabre into a downward spiral. A Banshee shrieked past, a Sabre hot on its tail. The LADAR scope bleeped incessantly, almost drowned out by the keening of the proximity alarm. Cotter spun about on the drive trails of a twisting Banshee, his guns thundering as they ripped it apart.

"Scratch one!" he whooped.

Something hit him from behind. The Sabre jolted. The shields screen blinked red. Less than half strength. Cotter threw the Sabre into a scream-dive, spinning through the latticework of plasma fire. There was a Banshee on his tail, hell-bent on tearing him apart. A flick-roll to port and a jolt of the impulse drive brought him up in the opposite direction. Still the Banshee clung on, rocking his Sabre with another burst of plasma fire.

"This is Seven, I've got one on my tail!"

Kite Eight was the closest.

"Copy Seven. I see you, Richie." Campbell replied.

Campbell triggered his cannons as he rocketed down after the Banshee, his guns spitting. At a target that was no longer there. Ernie Campbell frowned.

"Thanks Eight." Cotter was saying, rolling back into the fight.

"Don't thank me just yet, Seven. I lost the target."

"Slipped you?"

"It's gone." Ernie craned his neck over his shoulder, trying to get a visual.

"How could it just disappear?!"

Ernie Campbell's voice was thoroughly spooked.

"I have no idea."

* * *

Chidinma's shoulder muscles bunched as she hauled the Banshee up in a shrieking climb. A stroke of her thumb armed the fuel rod launcher. She spun low, diving toward the _Impetuous Decision_, defiant as she wove through the storm of fire hurtling toward her. She squeezed the firing stud. The rocket blew one of the Impetuous' cannons apart in a thousand pieces of hissing debris. The shrapnel skittered against her hull, rattling the ship. She rolled away as the remaining point cannons tried to catch her in vain.

She was still annoyed at herself for letting the Sabre get away. If the other one hadn't shown up, she would have already started her tally. Turrets were easy prey, but little sport. It was the pilots she wanted.

The Banshee was a nimble flier, but a delicate one. Lacking a shield system of any kind, she had to rely on pure wildcat instinct to avoid the angry bolts of fire thrown up by the UNSC's defence screen. Fortunately the Sabres were occupied for the moment, all but overwhelmed by the Covie fighters swarming them. They were distracted. That was good. Distracted pilots made mistakes. Distracted pilots died.

Chidi new the others were watching her performance. She glanced at the mission clock. Ten minutes in. Time to open a proper tally.

Hungry for a kill, Chidi circled back in the direction of the twinned Sabres she had been chasing earlier, pulse drives flaring.

* * *

"This is UNSC _Impetuous Decision_ to all Sabre units, we need that Corvette taken offline."

"Copy, _Impetuous_." Prescott said, spinning his Sabre away from a trio of fighters on his tail. "Two flight, you're up. We'll tie up the fighters, you dice those engines."

"Copy, Kite Leader." Nichols replied smoothly. A burst from his cannons took a Banshee in the wing. The wing exploded, sending the hapless bandit into a chaotic spin toward the planet below. He opened his com.

"Two Flight, make for the _Tirade_. Killing its engines is top priority."

Two Flight acknowledged and broke off from the melee. Nichols went to do so as well, intending to pull off a snap roll to starboard. He was still bottoming out his roll when his proximity warning blared. Nichols barely had time to look up. The stray Banshee ploughed straight into him, clean through his shields and into the flight canopy. The two fighters hurtled off into the void, trailing smoke and venting spurts of compressed air, the broken hulls wrapped together like lovers entwined.

Kite Five vanished from the ladar display.

"Five is gone, I repeat Five is gone!"

Panicked cries played out over the Two Flight com net.

Six Banshees were engaging them. Alone and without Nichols' experienced hand to guide them, Two Flight were being overwhelmed.

"On my six! On my six!" Ernie shouted, snapping his wrist on the stick. The flick-roll saved his life. A torrent of blue plasma fire chopped through the space his ship had occupied seconds earlier. Two Banshees chased after him, vying for the kill. Cotter barrelled down upon them, his cannons taking one apart. The remaining Banshee broke off, its pulse drives trailing flowing purple contrails as it spun away.

Cadet Alice Alexander was the next to die.

"I can't get this guy off of me!" she cried. "Shields critical! I need to-"

Plasma shots gutted the undercarriage of Kite Six's Sabre. Landing gear fused with the fuselage in a smouldering lump. A second and third salvo tore the starboard fins off the Sabre. The fourth burst cut deep into the hull, igniting the Sabre's munitions. Alice's Sabre exploded in a spectacular fireball.

Chindima flew clear of the blast, hunting for her next target.

_One down, two to go._

The alien runes on her visual display pulsed an alarmed orange. Instinctively, she rolled to port, as hard rounds skimmed the edge of ship. Even glancing hits tore a jagged gash out of the Banshee's outer skin. She threw full power into boost, blasting forward toward the reassuring bulk of the Furious Intent.

Cotter sped after her, using his own boost to keep up.

"Where are you going!" Campbell asked. He unleashed a swarm of rockets after his own target. They rockets, angry red, lashed out like a swarm of angry hornets

"That's the Banshee that stung Alice. I'm getting payback!"

"Not without me you're not!"

The _Furious Tirade_, its engines at full power and uncontested, continued to close the gap toward the _Impetuous Decision_.

The mission clock read fifteen minutes.

It would be over in less than ten.

* * *

High up in the observation chamber, Damien marveled at the chaotic speed of the conflict. The complex, twisting turns, the frenzied struggle of pilots who would kill two, three, four enemies, only to be killed themselves a moment later.

Three Flight was down to three craft; Kite Eleven having been boxed in by three enemy fighters and taken apart in a storm of energy rounds that cracked the Sabre open like an egg. One Flight fared little better, though part of its survival was testament to the skill of its pilots.

None were more skilled than _The Shrieking Eagle_. The name fit. Commander Laurent had made ten kills, having almost overheated his cannon system. Switching to rockets, he made another two kills. Watching him was a pleasure unto itself - the elegant loops that folded into snap-turns and sudden course corrections which threw even the simulated A.I. fighters into a dizzied spin. For all he killed, for every Banshee he ripped apart a there were always more, more, more. Though he might win a dozen more sorties, Kite Squadron would lose this battle if things continued to deteriorate.

Evidently he knew that too. He broke off from One Flight's desperate defence of the Impetuous, gunning his engines for the beleaguered Two Flight. Two Flight were nestled close to the hull of the _Furious Tirade_, winding in and out of the lancing plasma fire of the corvette's defence turrets. They had killed the majority of the fighters assaulting them. A single Banshee remained, which danced and jinked between the curvature of the _Furious Tirade_. Sometimes the dogged little fighter even rolled through the gaps in the ship's architecture, the Sabres unable to follow.

Damien smiled to himself, exchanging a nod with Rebecca. He knew Chidi's flying when he saw it.

Standing beside him, Eric scrutinised the display. Pound for pound, the _Impetuous_ couldn't afford to get into a slugging match with the _Furious Tirade_. For one thing, the _Tirade_, with its gentle sloping lines and external buttress, was fully double the length of the _Impetuous_, and had twice the armament. The fighter screen was another matter, however. The _Impetuous_ rolled into the fighter swarm, weapons prime. Mounted guns licked out in sheets of flame. Banshees screamed as they died, torn apart by the deluge. One of the Sabres strayed into the path of the friendly guns, its shields buckling. The Sabre twisted away, trailing smoke but still flight-capable.

More fighters began to come in from Slipspace. Larger pulse drive signatures.

"New signature reading on scope. Second wave incoming!"

"Seraph fighters!" one of the cadets of Three Flight panicked.

Commander Laurent ignored them. He held thumb down on the ignition thrust, hurtling toward the _Furious Tirade_.

To where two candidates were having a very rough time altogether.

* * *

Cotter swore as a burst of plasma fire singed his starboard shield, leaving oily scorch marks across the wing. He peeled off from his pursuit, weaving to duck under a second burst. The _Furious Tirade_'s guns had his scent, but that wasn't the main problem. Every time he went to make a run on the _Tirade_'s engines, the Banshee would reappear, flitting out from the shadow of the Tirade's hull and driving him off course with needling bolts of plasma.

"Kite Seven, Kite Eight, this is Commander Laurent. Head for the engines, I have your back."

"Ten four, Commander." Campbell replied, rolling to port. The baleful orange glow of the Furious' engines burned bright in his canopy. He flicked over to missiles. The tracking system started beeping.

"Weapons primed."

The targeting display began to keen. Red-reticule. The system beeped twice.

"Target locked." He reported. "Firing."

Proximity warning. How was that possible? There hadn't even been a warning indicator. Campbell didn't even have time to blink. The fuel rod missile caught him square in the nose, blowing the front of the craft back out via the engines. Kite Eight detonated like a SHIVA warhead: with a nuclear flash he detonated.

"Campbell's gone!" Cotter shrilled.

"Focus, Kite Seven!" Laurent snapped, swooping in on the direction the missile had come. "Take out those engines, or we lose everything!"

Privately Laurent was curious. That missile shot had been blind fire. A fluke, surely. Or had it? Simulated opponents didn't do that. Which meant that whoever was in that Banshee was either very lucky, or had considerable talent. For the first time since the mission began, Laurent's interest was piqued. For the first time in almost three years, his pulse quickened from the prospect of a worthy challenge.

The Banshee was circling around the _Tirade_'s hull, hoping to line up a second kill shot, this time on Kite Seven. Laurent swooped after it, the rangefinder closing. He banked the Sabre up on its port wing, neatly side-slipping a salvo from the _Tirade_'s turrets. The Banshee flitted in between the main superstructure and between one of the external support fins. Undaunted, Laurent shot through the gap, readying his cannons.

The Banshee was gone.

Almost three decades of combat experience made him jerk the Sabre into a flick-roll at the last second. The canopy instrumentation flared a luminous green as the fuel rod missile screamed past. The Banshee flew down at him, plasma emitters spitting. Laurent smiled tightly, spinning his Sabre out of the way and blasting the engines up to full power.

The Banshee had rolled upward and let him fly under. It had been luring him.

So it _was_ skill then, not luck. Laurent watched as his shields regained their maximum level, then rolled out of a thrusting dive. That was the thing about skill. It could only get you so far. You either had it or you didn't. Some of the greatest pilots Laurent had ever flown with had been better than him, in some cases appreciably so. It was luck, or rather the lack of it, which meant that Laurent was here instead of them. Skill and luck: you needed both, in generous yet equal measure. Laurent lined up the elusive Banshee in his gun sights. Luck was a precious commodity, and one with a very particular catch.

It could run out at any time.

* * *

Cotter's targeting computer pinged. He squeezed the firing stud. A blitz of crimson rockets jetted out, arcing in toward the _Furious Tirade_. The external port engine detonated with explosive fury. His ship rocked as the venting fuel debris toasted his shields. Cotter flipped over to guns and raked fire into the engine beside it. That too exploded. The _Furious Tirade_ began to list drunkenly on one side, venting plasma fire into the void.

Cotter broke off, his shields shimmering from the residual heat wash flaring off the _Tirade_'s engines. New missiles slid into the Sabre's launch bays. The weapon status light winked green.

"Kite Lead this is Kite Seven. I've hit two of the engines, coming in for second attack run."

"Acknowledged with thanks, Seven." Prescott's voice was distracted, "Good hunting."

Chidi swore violently as she threw the Banshee into yet another demented barrel roll. Cannon fire chased her every inch of the way. This guy was everywhere. Any turn she tried, he guessed it, any dive she flung herself into, he followed. The man might as well have been glued to the back of her Banshee.

But he still hadn't hit her. Not yet. Chidi's reflexes and reaction time gave her an edge, an edge she intended to exploit. In the corner of her eye, she could see the second Sabre lining up to make a final run on the Furious. Two of the engines were all that were keeping the corvette in the fight. Without them, the _Impetuous_ would be able to complete the simulation, and jump to Slipspace.

Chidi bit her lip, concentrating on avoiding the scything fire her pursuer was throwing up at her. Her nemesis was faster, quicker, more experienced. He was going to get her. She knew that. It was only a matter of time.

She looked at the Sabre swooping in toward the _Tirade_. Then she looked back at the rear scope, to the view of the Sabre bearing down on her six.

That's when she had an idea. She thumbed the boost, throwing full power to the engines.

All the while, she was grinning.

* * *

The target indicator issued a steady beeping sound as it slowly locked on. It was taking too damn long. The plasma discharge from the ruptured engines was playing havoc with Cotter's targeting system. Finally, the system issued a keening tone, and the HUD glared an angry red.

"Fire resolution plotted. Firing."

He reached for the trigger.

Then the star field went black.

Cotter yelped as the shock pods in his seat buzzed him.

The simulation pod's seal popped with an exhale of released air. With a whirring clank, the wall servos settled the pod back on the metal deck. Blinking, Cotter unbuckled his restraints and doffed his helmet, utterly confused. He stood out of the pot, sliding down the ladder, and making for the observation room. He leaned heavily on the guard rail. His feet were drowsy and sluggish after the shock-jolt.

An alarming number of Kite Squadron were already waiting for him. Dominating the room was an armoured giant, along with a slightly shorter man, who also happened to be built too tall. The smaller of the two was a recruitment poster made flesh, who was too busy studying the display to pay Cotter or any of the pilots any heed.

Ernie Campbell clapped him on the shoulder, his generous mouth grinning ear to ear.

"Tough break, Richie."

"What got me?"

"I did." a woman's voice answered.

Cotter turned around, then had to look up. The dark-skinned woman towered over him, her regal eyes tinged with amusement.

"And who got you?"

"Who else?" Cadet Alexander said. "Laurent did."

"Actually that is not entirely accurate." A French-accented voice replied.

They all turned around. Loic Laurent was striking for his lack of height, more than anything else. The man barely cleared five foot. Well groomed, his goatee was neatly trimmed, but did little to cover the puckered scar tissue which tugged at the corner of his mouth. His hand had a slight palsied shake to it. PTSD was a common sight amongst long time veterans. Commander Laurent regarded the Spartan candidate solemnly.

"You detonated your fuel core, disabling my Sabre. I was unable to recover my systems in time to avoid the _Tirade_'s cannon fire. It has been a long time since such a trick has worked on me. A long time indeed. Well done."

He bowed politely, before making for the exit.

"You fly well, Cadet. I expect we shall see more from you in the future."

Chindima smiled despite herself, trying to ignore the envious stares of the rest of the assembled flight cadets.

* * *

The _Impetuous_ moved into position, presenting its starboard flank toward the _Furious Tirade_. Cannon fire licked out in angry sheets of fire. A Banshee flew straight into the deluge and got ripped apart in a flaring comet of sizzling debris. Swarms of missile pods filled the air between the two vessels. Plasma fire lanced deep into the frigate. Deep gouging trenches were chopped into the _Tirade_'s flank. This was ship to ship naval combat at its very bitter worst.

"Watch those cannons, Kites." Prescott warned to the remaining Sabres. There were fewer than five of them left. "Enough bandits up here as it is without killing each other."

Not that it mattered. The _Tirade_ drifted into the kill position, its fighter screen keeping the few remaining Sabres hopelessly tied up. One by one, surrounded on all sides by storms of Banshee and Seraph-pattern strike fighters, the surviving members of Kite Squadron began to fall. Prescott was the last to go, his Sabre trailing flame as it hammered into the hull of the _Impetuous_. The ship was already alight in several sections by then.

Twenty four minutes into the simulation, its fighter escort annihilated, its engine core under concerted plasma bombardment, the UNSC Frigate _Impetuous Decision_ was lost with all hands. No survivors.

* * *

Prescott was livid. Two Flight in particular were chastised for losing tactical control of the situation the moment Nichols' bird went down. There would be months of extra training details, focusing on squad orientation and unit discipline before the _Impetuous_ _Tirade_ scenario would be run again.

The pilots filed out of the observation deck, spirits low, fearful of the verbal tongue-lashing awaiting them.

After they had departed, only the two Chimera candidates, the Spartan and the doctor remained.

"You destroyed yourself to achieve the objective." Eric noted with approval.

"I had no choice. Commander Laurent was the better pilot."

"Commander Laurent's record is well documented. A fundamental part of being a Spartan is making difficult decisions in the face of overwhelming odds. A lesson it seems you have already learned, Candidate."

"Praise, coming from the Tin Man?" Rebecca arched an eyebrow. "The world may be about to end."

"I give credit where it is due, Doctor." The Spartan's visor turned back toward Chidi, "You'll train with Kite Squadron going forward. Once a week, in addition to any training required of you as part of the Spartan Program. This is on the condition that your abilities in the air must be secondary to your skillset on the ground. Understood?"

"Sir." Chidi snapped a salute. Eric returned it smartly.

"Excellent. Kaizen will make the necessary arrangements. Dismissed."

Eric occupied himself by studying the scenario's test data. Chidinma walked over to Damien and Rebecca, looking almost chirpy.

"You made a right show of them, Chidi." he grinned.

"Where did you learn to fly like that, Chidinma?" Rebecca asked, making notes on her data pad.

That brought the light right out of Chidi's face. Rebecca regretted asking almost immediately.

"I do not wish to speak about it."

"I understand, and… I'm sorry. Chidi."

"May I go back to my cell now?"

"You may not. You've been assigned a bunk in the main Spartan barracks, Subsection Zero-Three. Kaizen will provide directions."

The candidate nodded, then followed the guide lights Kaizen had activated along the wall. Rebecca looked helplessly at Damien.

"You won't get that story out of her, Doctor Pearson." Damien looked apologetic. "It takes time for her to trust people. My apologies, I should have told you that, Ma'am."

"I imagine we should start on the next candidate. Candidate 492?"

"Ah, yes. Rash. That should be interesting."

"Interesting?"

"It's Rash. Things are always interesting when Rash is involved."


	9. Chapter VI: Rashid

"If Viktorya is Chimera's claws, and Chidinma its wings, then Damien is surely its heart. They were skilled, each noted for their talents and wisely selected by the Arrowhead Project. Of the five candidates that form Chimera, it is the youngest of them, Rashid, that demonstrates the most overt intelligence. His mind is a precise instrument, of peerless insight and ferocious curiosity. There are faster Spartans, certainly, stronger ones and larger too.

But the mind can be most dangerous thing of all."

_- excerpt from the private notes of Dr. R. Pearson (Contractor Serial ID 2304-4075-4235), recovered 2561_

* * *

Rebecca had a feeling that the next interview was going to be odd from the moment they confiscated her data pad.

She and Eric had barely stepped off the elevator when a pair of grim-faced MP's intercepted them, MA5's crossed against their chests.

"No networked items beyond this point, ma'am." one of the MP's said, voice brusque through his helmet filter.

Rebecca looked up at Eric. The armoured giant simply shrugged slightly, his armour clicking with the gesture. She handed over her data pad.

"Suit interface too, Ma'am."

Rebecca frowned and unlooped the data bracelet from around her wrist, dropping it in the concession box the second MP was holding out. His other hand was holding a sweeper broom, which he played over her. It ticked steadily, but there was no telltale ping.

"She's clean." the second marine grunted.

"How am I supposed to take notes?" she asked. The MP wordlessly held up an old fashioned paper journal and a wax pencil, the kind used to make markings on antiquated terrain charts in the field. Rebecca arched an eyebrow.

"What is this, the 21st century?" she asked dryly.

"Necessary precaution, Ma'am."

The second MP went to play the sweeper broom over Eric's armour. The device began pinging and bleating in alarm instantly. A.I. integrating circuitry, advanced warfare sensor suites; a truly extraordinary number of hidden knifes, blades and garrotte wires. Eric stared down at him.

"Mjolnir."

The MP coughed awkwardly and stood to one side.

They were let through, the MPs shadowing them as their footfalls clanged along the steel decking. They were on the third sub-level basement of the main Laconia Facility. The lights here flickered intermittently, buzzing with an unhealthy throb. It threw odd shapes against the wall, and Rebecca found herself shuddering involuntarily. The steady thud of Eric's reinforced boots reassured her. For once she was glad of her monstrous, armoured shadow.

This section of the facility stood out for a number of reasons. For one the feedback circuitry had been visibly pried from the walls, replaced with simple infill polycrete. Another was that lighting was provided by twist-trigger illumination sticks gel-taped to the walls. Spent light flares sat heaped in buckets at intervals spaced along the corridor floor. It was crude, medieval almost. The cell door they eventually arrived at was similarly old fashioned. A heavy iron gate, triple bolted with reinforced Titantium bars, obstructed their path.

One of the MP's wheeled the crank with a shrill squeal of protesting metal. The Titanium-A bolts unlocked with a snapping jolt. The door groaned as the MP shouldered it open, stepping into the chamber.

The cell was wall to wall, floor to ceiling, barefaced polycrete. A single table was in the middle of the room. A simple latrine and a standard UNSC cot lay in the corner, neatly made. Sitting at the table was a tall and slender man, brown skinned with a tight, compact military haircut. Not as tall as Damien or Eric, but certainly larger than the average human male. He watched them with deep-set, curious brown eyes, a pleasant expression settled on his open face.

"Doctor Pearson, it's a pleasure to meet you." Rashid smiled amiably. An Outer Colonist of Indian descent, Rashid's voice was deep and polished; rich with a clipped enunciation that could have stepped from Oxford or Cambridge. You could have listened to him simply speak for hours, and felt all the smarter for it. Rebecca warmed to the boy instantly.

"You knew I was coming?"

"I anticipated that a psychologist would be brought on side, in light of our recent… misadventure." Rashid's eyes twinkled with amusement, "That it was you shows no expense spared. I've read your thesis. Insightful. As close as one comes to understanding the physicality augmentation provides without having experiencing it firsthand."

"And my insights on war?"

"I wouldn't know, truth be told. I am a survivor, not a soldier."

Rashid's gaze turned to regard Eric's bulky silhouette, backlit by the yellow-white corridor lighting behind him. Rashid's face hardened somewhat.

"At least not yet."

Eric stepped into the room, dismissing the MP's with a nod. He clanged the door shut behind him. He moved forward into the harsh overhead light cast down by the single spot lamp in the centre of the room, the crimson colour of his armour rendered all the more grim in the murky gloom.

Kaizen's voice spoke through Eric's helmet speakers.

"Rashid Saingay is largely the reason the escapees got as far as they did. He sabotaged the facility's administrative A.I., rerouting several encrypted security systems to mask Chimera's movements, while simultaneously issuing a restricted clearance to one of the outbound Pelicans. That he accomplished this with a data pad and an infantryman's combat knife necessitated the precautions on this level."

Rashid's head tilted up at that. That burning curiosity shone in his eyes.

"Synthesized voice. Natural vocal patterns, with an underlying digital signature." Rashid blinked. "A Smart A.I.? Fascinating."

Kaizen fizzled into view on the table before him, bowing gracefully. Rashid turned his attention back to Rebecca.

"They think me capable of building a starship out of a tea-cup and a flare. A gross exaggeration of my abilities, I can assure you, Doctor."

"A genius, but not always the smartest. Trying to use a Pelican to flee the system was your first mistake." Eric said bluntly.

"Ah, it speaks." Rashid said, smiling again. There was little warmth in the expression this time.

"'It' is also your commanding officer, Candidate." Eric replied, "Try to bear that in mind."

Rashid bowed his head in mock deference.

"Naturally, Sir."

"Why a Pelican?" Rebecca asked. She didn't want to lose Rashid's friendly disposition to Eric's growling. The Spartan had many talents, but diplomacy certainly wasn't one of them.

"The Spartan is correct. It was a mistake, one borne from the necessities of improvisation. Time was limited, and I went for the nearest craft available which could carry us - one I knew Chidi had put simulator time in. The lack of a Slipspace drive was… an oversight on my part. Somewhat Rash, as my dear friend Damien would take no small measure of joy in saying. A mistake. One that shall not be repeated."

"That I can vouch on." Eric said.

Rashid's brow furrowed, a question forming on his lips. Diplomatically, he changed the subject.

"Do you play chess, Doctor?" he asked.

"I used to. Back in university. I was part of the chess club, actually."

Rashid studied his finger nails for a moment, frowning as he spoke.

"Fascinating game; Indian in origin. One of my people's finest accomplishments. The single oldest strategic game in known human history. It has many things: strategy, insight, aggression. Sacrifice too. Entire libraries could be filled with the literature that has been devoted to it. I believe it was an American who said it teaches foresight, circumspection and caution in equal measure. Some academics believe that comparisons to warfare are an inaccurate analogy. Bishops cannot be called artillery, no more than castles can be called tanks. They believe chess to be beneficial strictly as a mental exercise."

Rashid looked up at her, blinking once.

"They are wrong."

"How so?"

"Consider the plight of perhaps the most important pieces on the board. The pieces upon which entire games are won and lost: the lowly pawn. Long suffering, they are asked to march forward, alone, and are picked off quickly. In groups? In groups they can win wars."

Neither Rebecca or Eric spoke. Neither were sure where Rashid was going with this. Unperturbed, Rashid continued to speak.

"I look at our ravaged colonies, at the billions lost in the face of the Covenant's genocidal crusades and I cannot help but think that though the last game may have been won, barely, the board is only in the process of being reset. The pieces have changed hands, and the players themselves shift with the sifting balance of power, but the game… the game remains the same. It saddens me."

"Why?"

He looked her directly in the eye.

"Because we are the pawns, Doctor Pearson. You and I. Different move sets, perhaps, and certainly different roles to play, but our ultimate purpose is the same. We have been given a purpose, and that purpose is to preserve the UNSC, or those elements within the UNSC which deign to consider us useful. No matter the personal cost."

"Without the UNSC, we would have lost this war." Eric replied. "Sacrifices were necessary. _Are_ necessary."

"Indeed. And that is what saddens me. That such a government - self-serving and long ignorant of the democratic needs of the outer colonists, its own citizenry - would be necessary to unite humanity and secure its place on the galactic stage."

"It alarms you, to have a centralised government?"

"It alarms me to have an unscrupulous one. Have you considered what would happen were a less benevolent administration to take charge? One with access to an army of trained Spartans, and even greater moral flexibility than our current leaders? We are but a single election away from outright tyranny."

"You're being alarmist." Eric said.

Rashid looked at Eric thoughtfully, considering the Spartan's war-scuffed armour; the dints, the scratches. The tank-like physicality.

"I daresay you're not being alarmist enough, Sir."

Rashid rubbed his jaw thoughtfully.

"But the stakes are appreciably higher now, aren't they? It's no longer about brush fire wars and taxation. There's a whole lot more to play for. Thirty years of war and the threat of extinction taught us that."

Rashid leaned forward in his chair, expression determined.

"I will commit to this program. Not out of love for the UNSC, or a sentimental sense of duty. No, my reason is a pragmatic one. Should the UNSC ever stray from being anything less than the shield that protects its people, should the Spartans ever become a tool mis-used - then at least I will be able to do something about it."

"It won't come to that." Eric shook his head vehemently. "There are checks and balances in place to limit Spartan deployment."

"I pray you are right, Sir. You'll forgive me if I err on the side of caution, and prepare myself for the challenges ahead."

Rashid turned back to Rebecca. His expression was frank.

"Truth be told, I never really wanted to escape. Chidi wanted to distance herself from the war, wanted her freedom; and who was I to say no? We had seen our share of horror. We asked Damien to help us. The rest followed him. Me? I was rather bored."

"You understand why they took you?" Rebecca asked, "The necessity of it?"

"I have seen what the Covenant are capable of, Doctor. And though regrettable, I realise that without the existence of terrible men capable of terrible things, we would not be having this conversation today. Sometimes, such monsters are necessary. I am resigned to that now."

"So you'll help us?"

"I will help you." Rashid nodded smoothly. His expression was grim as he studied the manacles binding his wrists. After a moment, he looked up thoughtfully.

"I expect you'll want to know what convinced me. For that journal you are so diligently scribbling into."

Rashid paused for a moment. Rebecca flipped the page in her journal. She was unused to hand-writing; her script was a ragged, scratchy scrawl. Her fingers cramped.

"Chidi didn't tell you, did she? What happened on Cairo III"

Rebecca shook her head, pencil poised above the page.

"No," Rashid mused thoughtfully, his voice sad, "No, I don't expect she would have. Very well."

And so Rashid began to speak and Rebecca, pencil scribbling, began to write.


	10. Interlude: Parting Moments of History IV

_"As the war raged across the stars, many of the Outer Colonies went dark, favouring protective isolation over direct involvement in what was proving to be a horrifically one-sided conflict. For some, such policies proved successful, with their rediscovery being cause for celebration in the immediate post-war period._

_For others, such as the third planet in the Cairo System, it meant that when the Covenant did come, they would face the storm alone."_

- excerpt from The Human Covenant War: An Annotated History (published 2571)

* * *

"Rashid!"

Rashid grumbled, rolling over. The pillow was warm and soft against his cheek. He pulled the duvet over with him, scrunching his eyes shut.

_"Rashid!"_

Sunlight was streaming in through the attic skylight. Dust motes swirled and danced giddily in the shafts of light. Outside the windows of the attic bedroom, the planet's twin blazing suns were rising, bathing the city of Keshod in a pale pink glow. The air filter unit beside the window coughed into life noisily. Within an hour, the air vent processors would thrum at max-capacity for the remainder of the thirty four hour day. Just another sweltering day on Cairo III.

Footsteps thumped on timber stairs. Rashid's bedroom door banged open. It was Jamal, his older brother. He was due on the first morning shift. Jamal worked with the processor maintenance teams, and wore the grubby yellow oilskin dust suit worn by the city's support workers. Vent work was gritty work, seldom pleasant but steady. For the next twelve hours, Jamal would pull pigeon dung from the flow-grills with rubber gloves, tend to vent coils and replace dust-choked extractor fans. Wrapped up in several sweaty layers of protective atmos-gear and exposed to the punishing heat and swirling dust storms that could sweep across the planet on a whim, it was a job for those on the lowest rungs of the planet's economic ladder. Though his face was largely obscured by the bulky nozzle of his filtration mask, his eyes were fierce as he hauled the blanket from Rashid's top bunk. The cold lanced through his skin like an icy spear.

"Rashid!" he barked, "School! Now!"

Jamal disappeared with a clatter of footsteps on the narrow staircase. The door at the foot of the stairs slid shut behind him. He would be gone for the rest of the morning cycle. Rashid blinked, rubbing at his eyes. He had overslept. He shivered, missing the comforting warmth of his bunk. A planet of extremes, Cairo III was plagued by scorching days and freezing nights. He rubbed his hands together, blowing on them in an effort to coax some life back into them. Rashid picked up his school pack, grabbing the packed lunch Jamal had left for him by the refrigerator. Rashid snatched up the scuffed data pad at the foot of the bed. It was old but well cared for - an integrated ChatterNet surfing unit, which could interface directly with the wider CPA network. Jamal had saved for months to buy it for him; a birthday gift.

Rashid stepped out onto the street, sealing the door behind him.

Their apartment was a small shoebox tucked away at the top of Almora Hill, a low-rent residential district overlooking the slightly more prosperous center. _Come to Almora Hill_, Rashid thought sarcastically, _commanding views and abject poverty!_ Here the houses were densely packed on top of each other; small structures cladded with pale sandstone, locally sourced. The flagstones which lined the dusty streets were uneven and missing in places. Six years since the local government declared itself isolated from UEG governance, the city had deteriorated rapidly.

Rashid kept his hands jammed in his pockets as he walked down the hill, his chin tucked against his chest. The chattering in his teeth would only be temporary. The icy cold would soon be a fond and distant memory once the suns rose to full height. The city was only coming to life. For all its poverty, the air smelled of fresh bread and ground coffee. Bakeries and corner vendors tempted his nostrils with their morning wares. The local traders were opening for business; roller shutters automatically retracted, lifting up with a clacking grind. There were few cars on the road. Fuel rations were in effect, and only appointed patrol cars belonging to the local militia were permitted to travel. He left his audio-headset wrapped loosely around his neck, choosing not to listen to his music. In this part of town, it paid to keep your wits about you, but he also enjoyed the sounds of the city yawning its way awake.

He made his way down the hill, glancing at the mural stenciled onto the side of a bordered up UEG police station. It depicted a red fist clutching a rifle. _Keshod Stands Free_, the words at the bottom read. The mural itself was stencilled with bullet holes. There was a gang of youths hanging around the base of the mural. They were teenagers, dressed in a mishmash of frayed coats and shabby dust-gear, but their shaved heads, white skin and armbands on their arms revealed their uniform allegiance to the Koslovic Liberation Front. KLF were not people to be trifled with. They stared over at Rashid, at his patchy clothes and his short, diminutive form. Their eyes were cold and hungry.

Rashid turned away, eager to avoid eye contact. He ducked into a narrow alley between a machine shop and the local butchers. He heard a shout from behind him, and quickened his stride. Moving onto the parallel street, he flinched as a militia truck zoomed past, fusion engine purring. Gunfighters hung from the back of the truck, posturing with their rifles as pounding Pulse music blared out from a speaker system. They wore looted UNSC surplus gear, defaced with coloured stencils. Many wore sunglasses and bandanas, their tanned and muscular arms exposed. They paid no heed of Rashid as they swept past. One or two of them were glancing up at the sky nervously. This part of the city was all but lawless now, with only Central, the core of the city, occupied by the remnants of the old colonial militia.

The militia Warthog rolled off down the street, disappearing around the corner. Rashid stepped out on the street, heading for a stairwell leading down to the city's underground network. The suns had climbed at an alarming rate, and within minutes the cool shade of the underground would be a welcome respite from the blistering heat.

He was halfway down the stairwell when he found her.

The girl was nine or ten years old, slightly older than he was. Her skin was the darkest ebony, and she sat with her feet swinging out over the railing overlooking the underground platform. The platform itself was dark and silent. The train didn't run to this part of the city anymore. He wondered what she was doing here.

"Hello." Rashid said.

She turned to look up at him, her eyes solemn and staring. She had remarkable poise. Rashid spent a great deal of his spare time reading, learning, studying. Poise was definitely the appropriate word to use. She had sad eyes, he decided.

"Hello." she replied sullenly.

"Aren't you going to be late for school?" he asked.

She shrugged and turned away, gazing out over the empty platform.

"I don't go."

"Your parents don't make you?"

"I live in the East Side shelter. I don't have any parents."

"Oh. Well... neither do I. I live with my brother. Up on Almora Hill."

"I've seen you around at the market." she nodded, "You go to the sims? You know, up by Tetra Park?"

"My brother doesn't let me. He says there's a lot of KLF around there. It's not safe, he says."

"You learn how to avoid them." she replied, "You can learn how to avoid just about anything if you're smart about it."

He didn't want to sound like a coward, so he changed the subject.

"Do _you_ fly in the sims?" he asked.

Her expression brightened. She nodded eagerly. "The old pilots at the Starport, they let me use the machines. I'm not very good, but I've been practicing. Someday, I want to be a pilot."

"Without going to school?"

A guilty look crossed the girl's face.

Rashid shook his head. "You should go to school. My brother is studying to be an engineer when he isn't doing shift work. He says it'll make things easier if we can get a job in Central. Learning is important, even for pilots."

"You sound like the priest from the shelter." she said glumly.

"Come with me. There's a class on at 9, at Shelter D-14. I'm already late. We can go together."

There was something about the earnest expression in his face that persuaded her. The girl pulled herself to her feet, brushing off her clothes with his hand. She was wearing a functional maroon jumpsuit which had seen better days. It was patched and worn and ingrained with salty dust, a hand-me-down from one of the aid shelters. Much like his own. She stuck out her hand.

"I'm Chidinma. My friends call me Chidi."

He shook her hand.

"Rashid Saingay. Nice to meet you."

Footsteps clattered down the stone steps behind them. Voices drifted down the tunnel. Mocking, jeering banter. A whooping laugh, then cackling. A bottle smashed against a wall, somewhere out of sight. More laughter. Rashid's hair stood on end. The KLF teenagers had appeared at the foot of the entry steps. They were too busy jostling one another to notice Chidi and Rashid at first. One of them was carrying a spray can, no doubt intending on adding to the winding graffiti which coated the tunnel's walls.

"Hide!" Rashid hissed, grabbing Chidi by the wrist.

They hurried down the steps to the platform. The KLF's footsteps followed them.

The west platform was empty save for a few splintered timber benches and a single, battered public access terminal on either platform. Both terminals had been sprayed with paint; their display monitors cracked from where vandals had tried to smash in the reinforced glass. Nobody seemed to care. No trains ran here any more.

Rashid and Chidi ducked in behind the terminal on their side of the platform. The clammy walls stank of urine.

There were six teenagers, varied in height and age. The tallest of them was eighteen, and was a lanky, squint-eyed youth with pock-marked skin and a perpetual leering sneer. Rashid knew him well enough. The thug's name was 'Smiler' Zhukov, and he spent a lot of time as a snitch for the local militia's protection gangs. Counterfeit smoke peddling, some harder substances, even rumours of weapons, if the price was right and you knew who to ask. His carrying a switchblade, and fondness for using it, was common knowledge.

Rashid looked at Chidi, putting a finger against his lips. Zhukov was a known racist and a nasty piece of work through and through. He and one of his closest lackeys, a bulldog-faced oaf who was more slab than human, were mocking one of the smaller members of the group. The others jeered and laughed at the appropriate moments as they milled about the foot of the entrance stair platform, content to kick around some of the loose tiling that had fallen down from the crumbling ceiling.

Hidden as they were behind the terminal, there was nowhere to go. There was no way to cross the open platform without being spotted. The tunnel mouths themselves were yawning cavernous mouths of shadow; ominous and impenetrable. They were trapped.

"What do we do?" whispered Chidi, eyes wide.

Rashid quietly shrugged off his school pack, setting it gently on the ground. He carefully undid the clasps, and rummaged a hand deep into the bottom of the bag. When it emerged it was holding a worn but well cared for data pad. The keys on the display were old and faded from use, but from the way Rashid's fingers danced over the controls, Chidi could tell the boy was operating from practiced instinct.

"C'mon, c'mon…" Rashid breathed, fingers racing.

The connectivity light on the data pad winked green. Rashid smiled tightly.

The terminal beside them suddenly lit up with a warbling tone. Smiler's gang snapped around to look at the sound. Panic welled up in Rashid. He'd meant to activate the other terminal on the far side. His heart hammered as his fingers tapped more instructions into the data pad. Chidi shrank back into the corner between the terminal and the wall. She could hear the gang's footsteps coming closer. Rashid's typing took on renewed urgency.

Suddenly the public terminal on the far side of the platform chimed into life with a warning blurt.

**KEEP IT CLEAN, RESPECT PUBLIC PROPERTY** flashed up on ticket tape running across the platform walls.

"What the hell?" Smiler frowned, sauntering over to the edge of the platform. His gang followed him, their mouths slack in confusion. The system hadn't worked in years. Chidi watched as Rashid tapped more instructions into his data pad. The text on the ticker display changed.

**HELLO SMILER**, the screen read.** I AM WATCHING YOU.**

Smiler exchanged an uneasy look with his friends. Rashid glanced at Chidi. There was a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. After a moment, the next typed message appeared.

**I WOULD SUGGEST LEAVING THE FAT ONE BEHIND. I AM HUNGRY AND WISH TO FEED.**

Chidi grinned. The colour had drained from the KLF. Their swaggering bravado was gone now, replaced with nervous trepidation.

"We s-should… we should go." the bulldog faced boy stammered.

"Idiot. There's somebody here watching us." Smiler growled, looking about. "Find him."

Rashid's eyes widened. More tapping.

Suddenly there was a blaring siren from both info terminals. The noise was astonishing. The siren kind used by the old Keshod Police Department, back when it was a functioning public body, and not a punishment gang for would-be revolutionaries. Smiler's gang bolted for the stairs, their footfalls clattering on the hard tile floor. The fat one led the charge, having discovered an agility hitherto unknown for such a large boy. Only Smiler stood his ground, scowling. Smiler pulled the switch-blade from his coat, flicking it open.

"Very funny. Police sounds. Inventive. But there haven't been police in this part of the city in years. You see this knife? When I find you, I'm going to gut you with it."

Rashid was still peering out when Smiler whirled about, spotting the two terrified faces peeking out from behind the info terminal.

"Got you." he leered.

Smiler was on them in a second, the knife in his hand. Rashid shrank back in terror, the data pad clutched in his sweaty palms. Chidi hauled him back behind her, stepping forward. Her chin was tilted upward in stubborn defiance. Smiler was easily twice her size.

"Not so funny now, is it?" Smiler said, his grin savage and hungry. There was a dangerous look in his eyes.

"Leave us alone." Chidi said evenly,

"Or what, you stupid little n-"

Chidi was on him in an instant, finger nails biting into the skin of his face. Smiler cried out in surprise and swatted her aside. Chidi tumbled to the platform roughly, grunting in pain. Rashid hung back in the corner, quaking with terror. They were dead. He had tried to be smart, and now they were dead. Smiler was going to gut them, just like he said. Unless…

Smiler dabbed at his face with his fingers, snarling when he saw there was blood on them from where Chidi's nails had raked his cheek.

"Bitch!" he snarled, "I'm going to have fun cutting you-"

The platform spot lamps sprang into life. In the dim gloom of the underground, the sudden glare was blinding. Rashid, his eyes closed, was touch-typing more commands into the data pad from memory. The info terminals started vomiting tickets like hyperactive confetti. It was a dazzling display of utter chaos.

Running emergency lights started blinking red arrows toward the nearest available exit.

Rashid didn't need to be told twice. Unused for months, the system shorted itself out after having its command codes overridden with the coding equivalent of a freight train. The spot lamps flared out, and the info terminals died with a rattling sigh. Smiler blinked the blinding after-images away from his eyelids. He looked about. By the time the gloom had settled itself across the lonely underground station once more, Rashid and Chidi had already taken off up the tunnel.

Smiler could hear their hurried footsteps clipping off the tunnel walls. Sprinting after them in the dark, Smiler's grin had taken on a manic, determined look.

He was going to enjoy this.

* * *

They hid in the dark, transfixed by terror.

Smiler's legs were twice as long as their own. There was no running from something that could outpace them, especially something as pissed off as a rangy criminal with the glinting knife. The next station was a short hop on the tram line, but on foot it was a thousand metres that they could ill-afford to cover in time. They crouched under the platform ledge, low against the track. The track itself was designed with pits bracketing either side of the rail line. Were anyone to fall down onto the track, they could use these indentations to avoid being splattered by an oncoming train.

It was there where they hid now; legs aching, lungs burning. Rashid's suit had been torn at the knee and was bleeding. The pain glowed hot like a rash. The wound itched madly. The cut would scab, badly, but it was the tear in the suit that bothered him. A giddy voice at the back of his head told him that even were he to survive this, Jamal was going to kill him.

They could hear Smiler's footfalls slapping against the polycrete platform overhead. Smiler was breathing heavily, a lifetime of smoking counterfeit cigarettes having caught up with him. The footfalls rang overhead. They came to a stop. Chidi looked at Rashid. Rashid looked at Chidi. Neither dared breath.

Smiler was right above them.

Something burst through the tunnel above, punching into the centre of the track. There was an explosive cloudburst of smoke and pebbles. Daylight flooded in from a hole which had been blasted in the ceiling. The hole itself was a perfect cross section of packed dirt, severed cabling and bent metal from where the object had sliced clean through the topsoil.

In the centre of the track was a streamlined purple pod, its base half buried in the earth. The pod still glowed a ruddy pink from the heat of atmospheric re-entry. Smoke coiled and twisted from its hull. Rashid knew what it was instantly. He read the ChatterNet, he was wise to the way the world worked. And how it could end. He grabbed Chidi's wrist in a terror-fuelled vice, eyes wide.

Smiler was not a man with a devoted love of reading. He did not read the ChatterNet, nor did he know what the pod was. He jumped down onto the platform, his head cocked to one side. He held the switchblade low at his side as he approached, feet crunching on the shingled surface of the track. Smiler Zhukov didn't fear anything.

The pod sat their, idle and framed by the bright shaft of sunlight spearing in from the roof above.

There was a hissing sigh, and the front of the pod popped off and clattered to the ground.

A giant leapt out. It was a hulking, shark-like creature, armoured in an enclosed suit of iridescent armour. It stood almost fully twice the height of Smiler. Smiler looked up at it agog. At long last, Smiler Zhukov came up against something bigger and scarier than he was. The Elite stared down at Smiler, barking a challenge in warbling alien tones. Smiler cried out in a mixture of terror and anger, voice cracking. In desparation, he lunged with the switchblade.

A mistake. The Elite flowed around the arcing knife and effortless plucked Smiler off his feet by the throat. Smiler kicked and thrashed, gurgling; his knife-hand was clamped in the Elite's other hand. The arm was stretched taut. The Elite cocked its head to one side, studying Smiler in much the same way a scientist might hold up a test tube for closer inspection. It rumbled an amused laugh. Smiler croaked in terror, legs pumping in the air; his free hand flailing and thumping against the Elite in fruitless despair.

With a snarl, the Elite tore Smiler's arm clean from its socket. His strangled shriek was cut short by the brittle snap of his neck. The Sangheili cast the broken rag doll aside, arming its weapon and stalking away up toward the direction Rashid and Chidi had come from. Its heavy footfalls retreated into the darkness.

Rashid and Chidi sat there frozen in the dark, clutching one another and trembling with mortal terror. Rashid's data pad lay forgotten on the ground beside them.

In the distance, city-wide alarms began to wail.

Doom had come to Cairo III.

* * *

In accordance with the doctrines of their faith, and led by the peerless Sangheili, the Covenant came down upon Cairo III in a storm of fire and rage.

The sky was filled with flashing purple ships, which shrieked by and strafed the town with merciless plasma fire. Few of the colony's inbuilt anti-air defences were operational. Those that were fell silent within minutes, their crews slaughtered, their fire ports burnt into slag by superior firepower. Two-pronged Spirit dropships swooped in, disgorging clutches of alien assault teams down onto the streets below. The militia's response was chaotic and uncoordinated; any response was knee-jerk, with individual gangs choosing to defend their preferred personal territory rather than preserving locations of real strategic value. Marshaled by Elites, the Covenant assault squads cut through them by the dozen.

Panic was absolute. Civilians bolted for shelters, only to be felled in the street by sheets of scything plasma fire. Such was the indiscipline of the militia's firing that numerous casualties were a direct result of friendly fire, rather than anything caused by the alien invaders. One militia Warthog opened up on an Elite caught in the centre of the street. The bullets of the back-mounted rotary cannon took the Elite apart, together with the two families taking cover in the building at the far end of the street. The streets were strewn with smouldering debris and broken bodies. The air was filled with plumes of sooty smoke, and alive with the tinny rattle of gunfire.

Kigyar mercenaries began to establish themselves on the rooftops, cackling maniacally as they lanced fleeing humans off their feet with pinpoint beam rifle fire. Skirmishers leapt from rooftop to rooftop, their carbines barking as they outflanked and gunned down bewildered militia fighters. A pair of armoured Mgalekgolo began wading through a vehicle depot, swatting abandoned cars and trucks aside as if they were flies. One Warthog gunned straight for the first Hunter, its multi-barrelled cannon spitting. Hard rounds tinked and spanked off the creature's armoured bulk. The Hunter hunkered down, weathering the storm of fire behind its pitted shield as the Warthog closed the distance. With a whooping grunt, the Hunter plunged the shield into the centre of the Warthog's cockpit, pulping the drive and shunting the vehicle off the road. Its wheels spinning as it tumbled through a shop front, crushing those taking shelter inside. The Hunter took a step back, pumping twinned shots of fuel rod into the twisted hulk before moving on, sowing destruction wherever it went.

Rashid and Chidi saw none of this. They heard the screams from the streets above, and followed the train track down toward Central, the old administrative hub of the city. Refugees swarmed into the tunnels like rats, desperate to escape the unfolding havoc above. Within minutes, the tunnel was black with people, shuffling and sobbing as they fled south.

Central was the name given the to administrative heart of Keshod. It was here where the most cohesive defensive effort was being effected. UNSC veterans, long since driven underground by the Insurrectionist factions, had emerged and were rallying the ragtag resistance fighters into something resembling a decent fighting force. Ancient enmities were forgotten in the face of unremitting annihilation. It ultimately proved futile.

"People of Keshod, stand firm!" a voice on a tannoy sounded. "Drive these aliens from our planet!"

Fine words, but hopelessly naïve. The tannoy's support tower was atomised by a plasma mortar shell a minute later. Its operator was killed shortly thereafter, dragged out screaming into the middle of the street by Kig Yar and gleefully dismembered in public view.

Rashid and Chidi kept their heads down, staying together. Chidi led the way. She was more familiar with the tunnels, having relied upon them to get from her home to the Starport countless times. Their progress was impeded by the thickly packed crowd. They had slowed to a crawl, taking a single shuffling step whenever the throng inched forward.

"This is no good, Rashid. We're going nowhere." Chidi said, "There's a service tunnel which runs straight to Central just up from here."

"There's nothing on the charts." Rashid frowned, poking at his data pad. The charts were old, out of date. The screen itself flickered and bounced from the repeat return of a hundred thousand competing ChatterNet users. That, and the sheer amount of plasma discharge being dumped into the atmosphere was playing havoc with his connection.

"It's there, trust me. Just a little farther."

She was right. All but ignored by the edge of the tunnel wall was a small iron door. The crowds shuffled past, heedless, not wanting to waste time by bothering to open a door that had no handle. Chidi produced what looked to be an enlarged hex key from her jumpsuit.

"Where did you get that?"

"Stole it from the Starport." she replied, as she plugged the key into a recessed diamond hole in the door. "There's tonnes of stuff out there that nobody wants anymore."

"You _stole_ it?!" Rashid gasped, shocked.

Chidi shot him a look over her shoulder.

"Do you want in or not?"

Rashid closed his mouth, realising that this was perhaps not the best time for following the rules blindly.

There came a growl echoed up from further back in the tunnel. Low, wet and hungry. People began whispering and push forward more urgently. Somebody cursed. Then somebody screamed. An ear-splitting, piercing wail that was cut sickeningly short. Like a starter pistol at a race, the effect of the shriek was immediate. The crowd surged forward. People began shouldering forward. Shoving. Somebody fell, and cried out as they were trampled. Steadily, the rush was turning into a stampede.

There was a spitting sound of gunfire which reverberated from further back in the tunnel. Though it would be years before Rashid learned what the sound was firsthand, he would never forget it. It was the sound of several Jiralhanae Spike Rifles on fully automatic. Lancing barbs chopped into the rear sections of the crowd. There was little need for precision aiming. Packed tight and with no hope of escape, people died in their dozens. The ensuing panic would kill hundreds.

"We need to go. Now." Rashid urged. The crowd was pressed tightly behind them. Some of those held upright were already dead, their lungs crushed in the squeeze. The air was filled with muffled screams, frenzied bleating.

"It's not working!" Chidi panicked. She was working the hex key as hard as it would allow.

"Let me help! On three!"

They both grabbed the hex key, hauling on it. It moved slightly. Chidi put everything she had into it. Metal squealed. It budged, slightly.

"Again!" Rashid cried.

The Brutes advanced, chortling amongst themselves as they unloaded into the rear of the crowd. They ignored those they maimed, stamping on those close enough to bother killing. Those that did manage to escape would die shortly thereafter, intercepted by Kigyar overwatch teams laying in wait at the underground exits. For those below, suffocation would take the greatest tally.

Finally the door opened up with a metallic shriek. The two children tumbled into the maintenance shaft. Adults began barging in past them, stepping on them in their haste to take a new way out. Chidi pulled Rashid to his feet, yelping as yet another panicking refugee stepped on her foot. They hurried along, ducking into a small ventilation passage that ran parallel to the maintenance tunnel. The ceiling height was too low for adults to fit into, and Chidi had to duck her head to avoid clocking it against the top of the vent.

They half-ran, half-crawled for what felt like hours. The ventilation shaft eventually branched off from the maintenance corridor entirely, canting upward and slowly but surely bringing them back up to street level. Rashid kept his nose in his data pad, navigating with brusque calls of "Left. Right. Left again."

The boy's sense of direction was unerring. Seldom was it that they had to double back. Chidi for her part kept him from walking smack into the middle of intersections. Rashid's data pad was like an extension of his body. He was completely absorbed by it. Chidi envied him in a way. Every so often, she could hear a chittering, squawking sound. The sound echoed maddeningly from all directions. They increased their pace. The chrome of the vent shaft soon became powdered with fine sand. Sunlight dappled through one of the vent grills at the side of one of the buildings. They had escaped the lower tunnels.

They peered out one of the external vents overlooking the street below.

It was carnage. The war had already swept through this part of the city, leaving in its wake a carpet of bodies and strewn debris. One or two fallen Covenant were scattered amongst the fallen. A makeshift barricade had been set up in the centre of the street, though this had been ploughed through the centre by a Wraith Battle Tank, which itself had been immolated by an improvised explosive device. The militia, many of whom had strong ties to the Insurrectionist cells on Cairo III, were putting their experience with explosives to good use. That there were bits of charred Warthog hull scattered about the smouldering wreckage told Rashid the rest of the story. Kigyar scavengers, their glowing Point Defense Gauntlets a rainbow of colour, picked their way over the wreckage, seeking to salvage some profit from the devastation.

"Get out here?" Chidi whispered. She was anxious to get out of the vents. That chittering sound was growing ever louder.

"There's an internal exit not far from here. I'd rather avoid the street if we can." Rashid whispered back.

The exit in question was a bulky, hinged frame vent cover, which yawned open into a spotlessly clean kitchen. The luxury on display was mind boggling. The food processing units and counter gleamed; even the deep-fryer was stainless steel, brushed with chrome. Spot-lamps lit the room brightly, and ceramic tiling covered the floors and walls. There was even a walk in freezer, larger than Rashid's entire bedroom. The two children looked about, blinking in confusion. The building was an upmarket hotel of some kind. Its former occupants had left in a hurry. The stove was still on, and boiling water bubbled over from a pot, sizzling down the unit. Ever mindful, Rashid turned the oven's setting down to simmer before checking his data pad once more.

Rashid tapped his fingers quickly; accessing the hotel's internal network. He sealed the only door leading into the room.

They were less than twenty minutes walk from the Starport. In this mess, that might as well have been two hours. The hotel they were in was called the Good Rest Hotel; it was used for visiting trade officials and government dignitaries, and had been kitted out with an opulence at entirely at odds with the remainder of the city.

"Where are we?" Chidi asked, breathing heavily. She crossed over to one of the massive fridges and helped herself to a jug of water. She drank sloppily, allowing the spilling water to wash the cloying grit from around her mouth. She wiped her mouth and passed the jug to Rashid, who did the same.

"Not far. About two blocks at the most."

"We need to move. There's something-"

A rasping squawk made them turn around. They froze.

"... here."

There was a birdlike Kig-yar perched in the ventilation shaft they had just crawled out of. It was a scrawny, thin-limbed wretch, with a light plumage and waxy, chicken-like flesh. On the small of its back was a pouch of swag; looted items from the heaped dead in the tunnels - engagement rings, good luck trinkets and rosary beads. Sickeningly, some of the rings still had fingers attached. The Jackal's skin was covered in dust and soot. It turned its head from one side, blinking steadily. It leapt down into the room, tensing its barbed claws and snapping its beak. It carried no weapon, but given the appearance of the two diminutive children, it wouldn't need any. The claws looked wickedly sharp. So too did its rows of serrated teeth.

The Jackal bared its teeth, tensing to pounce.

Rashid was faster. As the Jackal leapt forward, he grabbed the cooking pot from the stove by reflex, swinging it one-handed into the creature's face with a clang. Boiling water caught the beast full on. It shrieked in agony as it tumbled past him.

Then Chidi was on it, a frying pan in her hand. She brought it down on the Jackal's head with a resounding bong. Purple ichor and broken teeth flew. She brought the frying pan down twice more for a good measure. The Jackal lashed out with a back-handed claw in blind rage, grazing Chidi's arm and smacking her to the ground. Livid, and with one eye swollen shut from second degree burns, the Jackal clawed itself back onto its feet. Rashid started throwing everything he could find at it. A bowl of fruit, a cheese grater, a spatula. The Jackal back pedalled, shimmering its Point Defence Gauntlet to life in an effort to ward off the deluge of random cutlery. A head of lettuce exploded against it, making a mess of the floor. The Jackal croaked a challenge.

It was so preoccupied with Rashid that it didn't see Chidi snatch up a chopping knife and lunge forward.

The knife buried itself to the hilt in the creature's throat. Purple ichor jetted from the wound in thick, pulsing spurts. The Jackal squealed a mewling gurgle and toppled back onto the floor, legs pumping and spasming. It died messily, giving one final involuntary twitch before its eyes rolled back in its head and lay still.

Chidi looked down at the Jackal, hands on her knees, gasping for breath. Her forearms were coated in the sticky warmth of purple gore.

"Nice." Rashid panted. "We… need to go."

Chidi managed a nod, swallowing the urge to vomit.

There came a bang at the door from the doorway leading out into the restaurant proper. Clawed hands, pawing at the doorway. An alien pair of fists started thumping at it.

Rashid looked up at the doorway. He looked down at the dead alien, then over at the walk-in cold room. He turned to Chidi, who had retrieved a new kitchen knife, a determined look on her face.

"Get down." Rashid said, he was once again typing into his data pad. "Behind the island unit."

The automated systems within the kitchen began to adjust in accordance with his commands. The door to the cold room opened in a billow of steam. Inside were a selection of prime meats, fine cuts of beef and pork and veal. A veritable feast. The lights around the expansive island unit shut themselves down, with the exception of the lights directly above the dead Jackal. Rashid made a few more adjustments. The lights to the cold room snapped to life. He had one final adjustment to make. He ducked down in the darkness beside Chidi. He tapped in the last command.

The outer door unlocked and a Jackal stumbled through.

This Jackal Skirmisher was twice the side of the first. A larger cousin, perhaps a tribal leader? Rashid couldn't make out the significance of the plumage, but the armoured exoskeleton and massive rifle were proof positive that this creature was more of a warrior than a looter. It held a long barrelled purple carbine in its hands, and swept the room carefully. With a blurt of motion too fast to see, it leapt up onto the island unit, tracking for targets. It squawked a challenge to the open air.

Chidi could hear the click of its taloned feet against the surface counter. She could see the barrel of the carbine sweeping above her. The Skirmisher's talon drummed against the stainless steel counter impatiently. The carbine disappeared from view. There was a clack as the Skirmisher, satisfied that the room was clear, went down to check on its fallen comrade. Rashid watched it, tracking its progress in the wobbly reflection of some of the wall mounted metal panels. Were it to simply turn its head slightly to the left, it would have seen their reflection staring right back at it, quaking in petrified terror.

The Skirmisher toed the fallen Jackal dismissively, turning its neck about as it inspected the knife wound. It stood back up, ruffled its plumage in the equivalent of a shrug and then stalked toward the cold room, carbine held up before it. Its toes clacked against the icy floor. A growling purr issued form its throat as it looked up at the cow carcass twisting on the meat hook before it. Rashid silently edged toward the doorway on the balls of his feet, creeping closer to the cold room. The Skirmisher snapped a bite off the meat, swallowing it raw. Ravenous from the day's killing, it began to feed, chomping and chewing with greedy snaps of its beak.

Rashid leapt up and made a lunge for the doorway. The Skirmisher turned about, hissed in surprise and turned about far too quickly. Its legs went out for under it. Struggling for purchase, its clawed hands scrambled at the icy floor. Finding traction, the Skirmisher tensed its legs and pounced.

It slammed into the door just as it clicked shut.

Rashid hastily slapped the lock controls on the door, effectively sealing the creature in. Enraged, the Skrimisher started unloading on the doorway with the carbine at point blank range. Dents began appearing in the doorway, but short of a plasma grenade the frame would hold. Rashid snatched up his data pad, toggling the heat settings of the room from chilled to freezing. The Skirmisher plummage bristled at the influx of cold air, as it pounded the butt of its carbine against the doorway in enraged frustration. Then it stood back, activating its link with the Covenant BattleNet. Rashid didn't need to speak its chittering language to know what it was saying.

Rashid turned to Chidinma, eyes wide.

"_Now_ we have to go!"

* * *

They fled the Good Rest Hotel just as a half dozen more of the larger Skirmishers leapt across the street, bursting through the roof lights. Their avian agility fascinated Rashid, but this was no time for admiration. The fighting had died down to a few stubborn pockets of resistance. Covenant ground forces owned this city now. Across the planet, a similar scene was being played out in each and every settlement.

The children knew none of this. There was no time to tap into the wider ChatterNet, to establish what was going on. All their efforts concentrated on the moment, from desparate second to desparate second: on cowering in an alley, waiting for a hulking Hunter to clank by, its spinal fins bobbing. Or ducking back behind the shadows of an overturned truck as an Elite boomed instructions to the line of Grunts fanning out across the street. Every so often, a gunshot would ring out, typically followed by an accompanying scream. Chillingly, Rashid's ChatterNet reception improved drastically, due to the number of users dropping offline decidedly permanent reasons.

It became a mopping up action. While many battles still raged across the planet, the main fight had gone out of the city of Keshod. The shrieking Banshees overhead returned to the ships in orbit. The skies thinned, then cleared entirely. For the first time in six hours, the airs no longer screamed with the wailing drone of impulse drives. The Elites moved on too, satisfied that their work was done. They pushed on to the hills surrounding Keshod, to prosecute the war against those who had fled the city. The cowardly Humans would be punished, and justly so.

The smaller Covenant warriors were left behind to pick through the ruins, rooting out survivors and dispatching them with brutal efficiency. Many triggered improvised booby traps, typically in the form of high explosives. Shaped charges, high yield impact. Typically triggered by trip-wires or pressure plates. Faced with Armageddon, the Insurrectionist elements of the population were using their guerrilla expertise to devastating effect.

To the last, the people of Keshod would deny them.

Rashid saw awful things as they entered the Starport. A great battle had taken place here. The Control Tower was ablaze. The Gravitational Tether had been blasted apart by concentrated orbital bombardment, raining debris across the entire city. That single act alone had killed hundreds of thousands. Entire buildings collapsed beneath the atmospheric debris, which set fully half the city ablaze and reduced six whole blocks into jumbled mounts of crumpled polycrete. A pall of dust hung over the city, causing the children to choke and splutter. Rebar girders jutted out of the scorched ground like crude gravestones.

Dozens of the bodies cast aside throughout the ruins were dressed in the same uniform as the maintenance support teams. Rashid thought of his brother, lost somewhere out in this hellish city, and wept.

The approach to the Starport's hangar bays made for a grim journey. The hardpan was scored with impact craters and the burnt out shells of Covenant vehicles. Charred remains, human and alien, lined the polycrete asphalt. Many of the bodies had begun to swell in the blistering heat. Some had been stripped naked by the concussive impact of Covenant shelling, their clothes shredded by shrapnel. Flies swarmed above the shimmering heat thrown up by the beating suns. The air stank with the acrid smell of plasma discharge, and the rotting flesh of the fallen.

The two children inched their way through the devastation, tiny and vulnerable against a backdrop of tremendous violence. Their small feet brushed against a tinkling carpet of shell casings, where a mounted machine gun had clacked dry before its crew were overwhelmed and silenced forever.

Chidinma didn't say a word. Instead she quietly took it all in, and developed a hardened look that Rashid hadn't seen in the many hours they had spent travelling together. It was a look that never quite left her, not even until the day she died. Rashid put the data pad back in his backpack. There would be little use for it now. He resolved to spend the rest of his time in this life looking after her.

Had he been paying more attention, he would have seen that there was something going on in orbit. Had he been older and wiser, and had more time to study the signs, to understand them, he would have had more hope right then, in the middle of that field of death. But for all his brilliance, Rashid was still a child; just a lost boy in the centre of a city gutted by plasma fire. Buried at the bottom of his pack, Rashid paid no attention to the data pad. To the display that showed his signal was active and transmitting since he last used it in the hotel kitchen, and that he was being tracked by eyes unseen.

Eyes that had taken a very special interest in them altogether.

* * *

They reached the hangar. Or what was left of it.

The roof had caved in, and several of the transports were fire-scorched husks, hulled in a dozen places by concerted plasma fire. Others seemed fine from the outside, until they crept up the access ramp to discover that Kigyar salvage teams, eager for scrap, had gutted the instrumentation in a frenzied looting spree before moving on. Rashid began to despair. There was nothing for them here. Chidinma refused to give up, her jaw set in a determined line as she prowled about the abandoned Starport.

"We're toast." Rashid said, blinking back tears.

Chidi ignored him, increasing her pace. She walked around the corner of the building, peeking around at something out of sight.

"Seriously, Chidi, we're toast. We should head back to the city. Maybe we can hide in the ruins, scavenge for supplies. ChatterNet coverage has almost gone dark, but I should be able to make up a map where we can comb for supplies. Maybe we can hide in the ruins, scavenge for supplies."

Chidi wasn't listening. She wasn't moving at all. She was staring at something tucked around the corner and out of sight. Rashid hurried to have a look himself. He gasped.

"Or not."

It was a hangar, an old rusty aluminium shed. Whoever owned the hangar had unlocked it, then decided to try and flee on foot, unmanned by the sheer number of air fighters the Covenant had disgorged from space. With a dented roof that sat at an odd slope, the building itself was of no consequence to anyone.

What was inside it changed everything.

It was a _Shoebill '85-E_. An antique, a postcard from another era. A precursor to the standard UNSC Pelican, the ship was well preserved, dressed in red livery and coated in a fine layer of dust. A civilian craft, the ship had a more bulbous cockpit, and the armour plating was far thinner. A name, Prize Catch, was stencilled in gold letters on the outside of the cockpit beside a picture of a winking pelican holding a fishing rod in one of its wings. The name was fitting. It was a prize museum piece, loving cared but long forgotten in the chaos of the invasion. Miraculously, the Kig-yar looters had missed it during their initial raid.

"It's an antique." Rashid began. "A piece of junk."

Chidi didn't take her eyes off of the Shoebill. She was in love.

"It's perfect." she breathed.

"It's probably not even fuelled."

"I know how to fuel a ship."

"We'll be shot down the second we take off."

"Stop being negative. We'll be fine."

"And let's say we do take off. Where do we even -"

"I said we'll be_ fine_, Rashid." Chidinma's eyes flashed as she skewered him with a glare that scared him more than the Covenant. Rashid closed his mouth.

Chidi approached the Shoebill, triggering the remote access switch on the landing bay's console. The hatch descended with a hiss. She put one step on the landing ramp, then turned around. Rashid was hanging back, looking deathly pale.

"Well, are you coming?"

"I've… never flown before. Ever."

"Well _I_ have. Let's go!"

"I don't want to. I'm nervous."

"You're scared? You singlehandedly lock a flesh eating alien in a fridge single handed but you're scared of flying?!"

"You're ten years old!" Rashid protested.

"And you're what, eight?"

"Nine!" Rashid was indignant.

"Well stay there then. _This_ ten year old is about to fly this ship, whether you're coming or not."

With extreme reluctance Rashid followed her up the ramp. Chidi, despite the sheer trauma of the day, hid her smile as she settled into the cockpit, settling the massive flight helmet over her tiny head; felt the worn but welcome padding of the flight seat at her back. The whole cockpit smelled of warmth and dry leather, like new shoes. She had to prop herself up with a series of stacked fire blankets just so she could see over the instrument panel. She took a moment to familiarise herself with the instrumentation. The layout was different than what she was used to, and the gauges were slightly cruder, but the basics were the same. _Just like the sims._ Rashid plonked himself in the seat beside her, buckling up the straps and looking deathly ill. Propped up as she was on her perch, he looked tiny beside her.

"I lied actually." she said over the com as he settled a massive pair of earphones over his head.

"Lied? About what?"

Chidi flipped a switch. The dashboard lit up. Fully fuelled, systems green. She flipped two more switches, and the airframe jolted as the engines powered up. Locking tethers disengaged. It took her another moment to find the running lights. Chidi gripped the stick, settling in. Gently, she eased the stick forward. The _Prize Catch_ wavered in the air as it wobbled out of the hangar on its lift jets.

"I'm only nine years old too…" she said, pushing the throttle up. The Shoebill nosed forward unsteadily, gaining altitude. Rashid's brown skin turned to a greyish green. Chidi couldn't suppress her grin any longer.

"…and I've never flown before either."


	11. Chapter VII: Security and Assurances

_"Are you sure that this is the best course of action available?"_

_"Chimera is a mistake. A mistake rooted in a litany of errors. It's a loaded gun, and we're playing with it like an enthusiastic child!"_

_"Agreed. No good will come from this."_

_"The council members' points are noted. This does seem a bit unwise, to put such trust in such an unpredictable candidate pool. Infinity is almost online, and our other training facilities are already underway. There will be other Spartans, Director."_

_"Few of this caliber, Madame-President. Chimera were one of the first groups selected as part of _Arrowhead_. You've seen the test results. Their potential is self-evident."_

_"I cannot help but feel that _Arrowhead_ will come back to haunt us all, Director. I pray that you are right."_

_"So do I, Madame President. For all our sakes."_

/ Unknown conversation, data intercept c. 2556, Source-data[REDACTED] - EYES ONLY /

* * *

Rashid stopped speaking. Rebecca's hand hovered over the page. She had written for two hours straight. Only now did she notice the dull ache in her hand.

"And she flew you clear of the city?" Rebecca asked.

Rashid raised an eyebrow.

"Oh goodness no." Rashid laughed, "Please, we were _nine years of age_, Doctor. We crashed five minutes after take-off. Clipped a billboard overlooking the I-16. It turns out the altitude adjustment pedal on a Jackdaw is in a subtle but fundamentally _different_ location to that of a standard UNSC Pelican. The things you learn."

He lifts his shirt. A pale white line of scar tissue snaked its way across the deep brown skin of his chest, curling up toward his left shoulder.

"It saved our life, truth be told. The impact triggered the Emergency broadcast beacon. It's an older signal, using an out-dated carrier wave. It stood out. An ONI Prowler was cloaked in orbit, monitoring emergency traffic during the invasion. It picked up the E-PERB, and dispatched a retrieval team. Snatched us right out from under the Covenant's nose."

"You were lucky." Eric said. He was standing by the door, arms folded neatly at the small of his back.

"Extremely, Sir." Rashid said, his face sombre. "Also grateful."

"So why the escape attempt?" Rebecca asked, checking her notes, "Damien said it was your idea."

"Would you like the simple answer?" Rashid shrugged, "Again, I was bored. Ten years of injections, endless training and constant routine? Of diet regulation and gene-enhancement? The mind grows idle, and an idle mind is prone to wander. I started wondering what was out there, beyond the steel walls of our cells."

"That worked well." Eric remarked.

Rashid smiled mirthfully.

"Yes it rather did, didn't it? Locked in a polycrete bunker without so much as a good book. My question to you is - am I to stay in here forever?"

"You have potential, Candidate." Eric said, "Intelligence have been gunning for you ever since we picked you up. Games theory, spatial cognition? Off the charts."

"I'm duly flattered, Sir." Rashid bowed his head.

"You won't be going to the spooks, though." Eric's helmet shook slightly, "Not with your augmentation. Director Carter won't allow it."

"Are they concerned I might break the computers by typing too hard?"

"_I'm_ concerned you might break it." Rebecca replied levelly, "Out of boredom."

"Oh?"

"'An idle mind is prone to wander', Rashid. I've read previous psych evals done on you, Rashid. Chidinma is the closest thing you have to a family. I don't think being separated is going to help either of you. You'll be idle, restless."

Rashid pursed his lips, studying the table for a moment.

"It terrified me, the war. Did you know that? The sweat, the stink of it, the sounds - such fury! The dust as the city's systems failed, one by one, and the elements rolled in to scour the city, as surely as any plasma bombardment could have. I sit here and ask myself; do I want to go back to that? I am not sure I know the answer."

"You won't be going alone, Candidate." Eric replied. "Look at yourself - you're almost seven feet tall. You'll be armoured, provided by the best weaponry. You'll be surrounded by a fire-team who will be conditioned to look after you, as though they were an extension of themselves."

"And what did the UNSC offer you and your fire-team in return for your service, Sir?" Rashid asked, looking pointedly at Eric's prosthetic arm. "A replacement arm, to make up for the life they stole? You're a Spartan III: you were given no more of a chance than we were."

For once, Eric didn't have an answer, a smart comeback or a brow-beating put down. Eric turned and looked down at his prosthetic hand, turning it over thoughtfully. Rashid continued speaking. He drummed his fingers on the table slowly.

"I've read the files, you know. On Spartans, their combat histories. ONI didn't want us to see it, but their firewalls can be woefully inadequate at times. I'm under no illusions, Sir. I know what the life expectancy of a Spartan is."

Rashid looked up, his face set.

"And I'll do it. Not because I particularly _relish_ the prospect of battle, or for some high-minded sense of vengeance against those who destroyed my home. I'll do it because I'm one of the few who can, for whatever genetic chance or reason."

A half-smile tugged at his mouth.

"On the condition that you indulge me with a good book or two. I'll start with Steinbeck, and we'll go from there."

"Then I'm clearing you for as approved for Spartan training." Rebecca smiled, "You'll be free to move into the barracks on the surface once the program gets underway."

"You have my thanks, Doctor. It will be good to see the others again. Am I the last to be cleared?"

"Officially. There's one candidate we've yet to interview, but he was pre-emptively cleared before we arrived. Candidate 502: Luke Grey."

Rashid smiled.

"Ah, Luke." There was a mirthful look in his eyes that made Rebecca slightly worried. "Affable, cheerful. Destructive."

"He's not held in one of the detention cells." Rebecca noted with a tilt of her head.

"No, I don't expect he would be. Luke… enjoys trouble making, but in his heart he was always a UNSC man. Give him my regards, won't you?"

As they left the cell, Rebecca turned to Eric. One of Rashid's parting comments had set alarm bells off in her head.

"Something the matter, Doctor?"

"Candidate 502."

"What about him?"

"Did Rashid really describe him as… _destructive_?"

* * *

"The green wire." Damien was saying. "See it there?"

"I've got it, Chief." Luke shot back. Sweat beaded his brow, running down his nose and causing his nose to itch maddeningly. The countdown timer was racing. The trigger mechanism was a spider's web of multi-coloured wires hanging out of a gutted teddy bear; a rainbow bulge of splayed intestines. A classic Insurrectionist 'viable device' ,it was the kind that immolated crowds, or blew Mag Rails shrieking from their trackways. The golden button eyes and hand-sewn mouth of the bear seemed to smile up at Luke, as though bemused by his plight. Luke glowered at it, as he focused on the task at hand. Thirty seconds.

The wire clippers shook in his massive hand as he teased them through the tangled wires. The cumbersome defusal gloves felt four sizes too big, like two pairs of rubber gloves wrapped in deep-weather mittens. That Damien was peering over his shoulder in a similarly bulky armoured suit didn't help matters.

"It's on your left." Damien said.

"I've got it."

"No, your other left."

Ten seconds left.

"I said I've _got_ it!"

Five seconds.

Luke found the wire. He snipped it cleanly in half. The timer froze at one second.

"Aha!" Luke hissed in triumph. "Gotcha!"

With a lack-lustre pop, a cloudburst of neon pink paint splattered all over them. A canned, tinny laughter began to echo from deep within the bear's tummy. Almost as an after thought, a low-yield concussion grenade detonated at their feet with a monstrous roar, hurling the two candidates across the room with a yelp. Luke hit the ground and rolled, swatting at the small flames crawling across his back. In the observation lounge overhead, the UNSC Ordnance Disposal Unit that had been coaching them in this exercise were visibly burying their faces in their hands.

"Nice job, Luke." Damien coughed, rolling onto his back. He swiped at the pink paint on his visor, which only managed to smear it and blind him further. "I said the green wire!"

"I cut the green wire!"

"I meant the green one. The dark green."

"They were all green!"

"Well you the one you cut wasn't that dark. It was really more of a teal."

"_Teal?!_ Listen, Mr. _Colouring Book_, I'll show you teal -"

"Gentlemen, please." a voice on the speaker cut their argument short. It was the resonant voice of Director Carter, who had materialised in the observation lounge overhead. The two candidates clambered to their feet, standing to attention. "Candidate 501, report to my office, now."

"Uh-oh, now you've done it, Grey." Damien whispered. "Big man's pissed."

Luke shot him a glare.

"Save it, Hibernian. Next time you can find the vermillion wire."

As Luke made for the exit, his foot brushed against something. It was the disembodied head of the teddy bear. Its fur was scorched, and one of the button eyes was missing, but still it grinned up at him. Only now it looked like it was winking.

With a snarl, Luke kicked it down the far end of the room, before ducking out of the doorway and stalking for the elevator.

* * *

Luke was still dressed in the bulky, and thoroughly singed, bomb defusal suit when he stepped into Director Carter's lushly decorated office. The smell of burned plastic and scorched rubber wafting from his smoking armour seemed entirely odds with the understated wood paneled walls and the soft, thick carpet. He doffed the bulky blast helmet, holding it under the crook of his arm.

Luke had tanned skin, with a generous mouth and perpetually amused eyes that ordinarily would have seemed friendly. Right now, his expression was sullen. Sweat beaded his shaved skull, and not just from the heat of the suit. Nobody wanted to be in Director Carter's office. He stood bolt upright, eyes front as he awaited whatever punishment was to follow.

"At ease, Candidate." Carter waved a disarming hand, "I'm not here to give out to you. Have a seat."

Luke frowned, rubbing the sweat from his forehead with his armoured gauntlet. He stepped forward toward the large bureau. The chairs in front of the desk, as finely curved and upholstered with dark leather as they were, were far too small for somebody of his scale. The only result Luke would achieve from sitting in such a delicate piece of furniture would be reducing it to kindling.

"I'd… better not, Sir."

"As you wish." Director Carter settled himself down in his own chair, hands folded across his belly, "Do you know why you're here?"

"Is it over the exercise, Sir? Because I maintain that the dark green is entirely too similar to a teal."

"No, Candidate Grey, it's not over the exercise. I wanted to speak with you. Of all the Chimera candidates, you were the first one to voluntarily resume rotational training. I wanted to know why."

"The UNSC is my home, Sir. My parents died in a mining accident on Crassus, only a few months after I was born. I've lived in government facilities for just about as long as I can remember. Crassus, then more coreward postings. Reach, then Earth. Until the ONI spooks plucked me from obscurity, brought me here. I owe the UNSC a lot, Sir."

"Yet you took part in Chimera's little… escape attempt?"

"Moving around as much as I have, I've had few friends, Sir. Damien and the others? They're like brothers to me. Rashid and Chidi wanted out, I wasn't going to stop them. I regret hurting those guards. I think we all do."

"And if I were to be faced with the prospect of reactivating Chimera, re-enlisting them in the upcoming program, you believe they would stay loyal?"

"They're not orthodox, Sir. Not one of them are alike. But I've never seen anybody move as quietly as Viktorya, or think as quickly as Rashid, or fly like Chidi does. Give them a shot, Sir, and it'll stand to you. Hell, it'll stand to the entire UNSC."

"I believe you're right, Candidate. But you can agree that it's quite an ask, from a trust perspective. Given their recent history."

"They're loyal, Sir. To each other, first and foremost. But deep down I think they'll stand up for the UNSC when it counts."

"And if that loyalty should ever fall into question? If Chimera are entrusted with further weapons training, and armour, and the means to do what they want, when they want it? They become a weapon. What controls do we have for such a weapon? Where is our safety catch?"

Luke wasn't sure what to say to that. Carter leaned forward, hands steepled on the desk before him. Luke towered over him, but even so Luke found it difficult to look at the intensity of Idris Carter's gaze. The unblinking determination of it unsettled him.

"You, Luke."

"I don't understand." Luke blinked.

"You realise the risk involved, don't you? The full consequences of what would happen were we to unleash a Spartan team without the prerequisite mental conditioning? We wouldn't be seen as negligent; we'd be seen as war criminals, traitors. Should the unthinkable happen, and Chimera went rogue, any knowledge of the team's existence would be disavowed. They would be systematically hunted down and struck from the history books, never to be mentioned again."

"They're not like that, it wouldn't come to that."

"Would it not? I hope you're right, Candidate Grey. I sincerely do. But those who have funded this facility, they'll need assurances. A guarantee."

"What sort of guarantee?"

"As I said, you, Candidate. _You're_ our fail-safe. Our safety catch. You embody the _loyalty_ we need from Chimera."

The penny dropped.

"I'm not spying on my friends." the muscles in Luke's jaw bunched.

"You won't be _spying_, Luke. You'll be _protecting_ them; watching for stress points, potential fractures in the squad morale. An early warning system, if you will. You know Chimera better than any of us ever will. You can use that knowledge to make sure the UNSC's investment in Chimera remains sound."

"And in doing so, ensure my friends safety?"

Idris Carter nodded curtly, eyes watchful.

"Precisely. Monthly reports, filed on a candidate by candidate basis. Help me protect them from those who would rather see them retired before they even got a chance to prove themselves."

It was an order, not a suggestion. Luke thought of his friends, of what Carter had said. About consequences. He snapped a sharp salute.

"Sir."

Idris Carter rose to his feet, returning it smartly.

"I'm glad you appreciate the wisdom of this decision, Candidate. Dismissed."

The elevator doors opened as Luke approached them.

A fully armoured Spartan and a diminutive, if somewhat decorative, female civilian stepped out. She was dressed in a practical black business suit.

The woman frowned at her data pad, then glanced up at Luke.

"Candidate Grey? Luke Grey?"

"Yes ma'am?"

"I'm due to interview you." she began.

"That won't be necessary, Doctor Pearson." Director Carter called out. He had turned out to watch the sinking sun in the glass window behind his desk.

"Candidate Grey is precisely the kind of candidate we need."

* * *

It had been a long day, and tomorrow would be longer still.

As Rebecca stepped out into the evening air, the sky above had faded down to a dull rosy pink. The dipping sun danced off the damp asphalt, casting the entire facility in a hazy glow. Everything seem washed out, the edges of the metal roofs and armoured vehicles highlighted by thin streaks of amber gold. In the distance, a trio of hulking Mantis assault walkers clomped their way across the hard pan, heading out on an evening patrol. It was still late summer, and the breeze was warm and humid.

The Spartan and the psychologist stood alone at the edge of the landing pad, watching the world go by.

"I have a question." Rebecca started. Eric's visor swiveled down to look at her.

"Apparently you do."

"Your armour. Why don't you ever remove it? You know, take it off, relax? Surely they have facilities for doing that here?"

"They do."

"And?"

"System calibration. Materials Group want the Soldier pattern's A.I. wetware systems tested before full scale deployment." Eric paused. "The helmet also discourages nosy doctors from asking stupid questions."

"Stupid questions?"

"About the scars on my face. About my arm."

"Ah."

"That was your follow-up question? My arm?"

"Might have been." she admitted guiltily.

"No more questions, Doctor." Eric replied gruffly, "Get some rest. In the morning, we're heading to the armoury. For better or worse, Chimera's official training begins tomorrow."

His metallic footfalls clunked dully off the tarmacadam.

Rebecca sighed and followed toward her own quarters, making a final note in her journal.

_Note to self: Do not ask about the arm._


	12. Chapter VIII: A Timely Demonstration

_"What defines a Spartan? Is it their strengths in combat? Their weaknesses? Do they solely express themselves by their actions on the battlefield, or is it in the quiet lull afterward where their personality, their individual self, truly becomes apparent?_

_Or is it the armour? The Gen 2 armour system allowed the post-war Spartan candidates unprecedented expression when it came to their hardware. Before, Spartans were only identifiable from one another by the scratches and dints on their armour. Changes truly began with the Spartan III program. Today, no two look alike._

_Mjolnir represents their outer face to the world; a face which only they have the final say in selecting. Perhaps, combat form and technique aside, it's the closest thing to artistic expression you'll ever find in the post-humans of the 26th century._

_I asked one of the candidates, Damien, about this once. He laughed it off. Said I was over thinking things._

_Me? I'm not so sure."_

- personal notes of Dr. R. Pearson, retrieved 2561

* * *

"Good morning Candidate. The time is 0500."

It was hard to argue with a clock. Harder still to argue with a clock that spoke in Kaizen's voice; a voice that was as inviting and as personable as a gleaming gun barrel. Spotless, precise, and very, very business like.

Damien sat up in his bunk, instantly alert. He swung his feet over onto the icy floor tiles. The cold didn't bother him. Few things did. He padded over to where his uniform lay folded on a side table. The sleeve suit was the unofficial term for it, but as a description it was adequate: a matte-black ribbed under-suit, with ribbed vertebrae running up the spine and accommodation hook ports and data entry plugs dotting the chest, arms and shoulder blades. Combat boots and BDU trousers were worn over the lower half of the form-fitting body skin, which clung to the figure like a wetsuit. Wearing the sleeve suit, his head and throat would be exposed, but little else.

He stepped out into the barracks corridor, uniform folded under the crook of his arm. The barracks was considerably more accommodating than his prison cell. It was styled in the manner of a cadet training facility; individual rooms accessing a single central walk-through with a shower block adjoining the end of the block. What distinguished it from a traditional UNSC facility was that the furniture was built on a Spartan's scale. The rooms were larger, because they had to be. Laconia didn't train just anyone.

Viktorya was already outside, looking toward the shower block, alert. Even standing perfectly upright in a sterile spot-lit corridor, there was a skittishness to her, as though ready to break into a sprint the moment the wind changed, or a branch cracked within earshot. She nodded at him once, face expressionless.

"Good morning to you too, V." Damien smiled. A half smile flitted on her face, then vanished just as quickly. She was scanning for security devices and exits; an old habit of hers.

The others appeared quickly. Chidinma and Rashid looked fresh, excited. Luke had a frown on his face. That was unusual. Luke was seldom one to dwell on anything. _Probably still grumpy from the exercise yesterday_, Damien decided.

Even so, as the others were filing for the shower block, sleeve suits under their arms. Damien dropped back in the group.

"You alright man?" he asked.

Luke looked up suddenly.

"Me?" Luke said, surprised "Yeah I'm solid, D-man. Solid."

"Listen, don't sweat it about yesterday's test. That's what the training's for. We'll get it next time."

"Yesterday? Oh right, yeah. Damn straight we will."

They bumped fists, and Damien moved his way back to the front of the group, nodding at Eric, who stood armoured and silent at the entrance to the shower blocks.

Luke shook himself. With a bit of effort, his frown faded, and his smiling demeanour returned once more.

"Armoury, Candidates." Eric's filtered voice grunted as they filed past him. "Ten minutes."

* * *

The dermal armour was the basic skin of a Gen2 Spartan. A thick, form fitting armoured body-glove; it had a scaled aspect to it, like a sleek blue lizard hide. The dermal armour was effectively sealed at the neck, and left only their faces exposed. Boots and BDU trousers had been discarded. The dermal layer would cover them almost entirely.

Damien ran his fingers over the surface of the chest piece. It felt cool to the touch. Solid as a tank hull, and yet it couldn't be more than an inch thick. The engineering of it was a marvel.

They'd dressed themselves in an anteroom appended to the main armoury, instructed and supervised by a swarm of white-coated scientists. They scientists would have appeared intimidating, with their reflective faceplates and static-free clean suits, were they not tutting and fretting like a swarm of worried parents. Eric had disappeared, leaving them to suit up.

Luke flexed an arm, watching as the suit's gel layer auto-responded, hardening around his bicep. The arm didn't feel like an arm at all. It was rock solid, with all the give of Titanium-A. It was perfect mimicry of his natural arm, only accelerated. With it, he could move faster, punch harder, kill quicker.

"Awesome." he breathed.

* * *

They stepped out of the anteroom onto a gantry overlooking a vast, cavernous space. It was a considerable drop to the training deck below. The entire room was brightly lit with industrial strength floor lights. Above them, an observation deck peered down. It too had an external gantry, which served as a balcony for any additional supervising parties. Eric stood on it, one hand resting on the guard rail as he watched them.

The gantry on their level spread across the entire chamber, with the walkway feeding into a series of smaller ones, all of which terminated in a single alcove.

"Candidates," Kaizen's calm voice piped through the PA system, "Please move to your appointed stations."

The candidates had been assigned a trio of personnel each for the armouring process: a two scientists, and a mechanical engineer, who was dressed in a high-vis yellow jacket and matching hardhat. Damien was led to the first side-gantry exiting the main spine.

Toward an alcove which contained the most curious machine he'd ever seen in his life.

The Armour Assistant was suspended from the ceiling in a wide, circular ring, from which a secondary arching frame hung vertically in a gentle sloping inverted U. It looked like an elaborate medical device. It was a sterile, clean thing, encased in white plastic alloy. At the foot of the inverted arch were two foot stirrups, and hanging from the wider framework were a dizzying array of mechanical hands, soldering lasers, industrial-clamps and plasma fitters.

Damien was led forward. There was an anticipatory whine as the Armour Assistant powered up, like the keening of a drill. It reminded him of dental appointments, back when he was a child on Hibernia. The manifold arms locked back with a whirr, shrinking back like a rearing spider. The foot stirrups popped open with an inviting mechanical clack.

Damien hated dental appointments.

He stepped up into the stirrups, facing the wall with his back to the central chamber. The stirrups locked, the sealing restraints bolting from the back, before the heel slid in and clicked shut. Armoured boots locked over the boot of the dermal armour, snapping into place.

Mechanical arms, long-limbed and spindly, reached down and plucked up Damien's arms, holding them up and to the side. Damien grasped a handlebar, doing his best not to flinch as the Armour Assistant screwed a twinned set of thick-plated bracers into the wrist mounts of his dermal plate. Suddenly the entire apparatus tipped Damien over onto his back. He exclaimed in panic.

"Relax," one of the technicians said. He was as slight man, whose face was largely hidden beneath the dust mask and clean suit, but his voice identified him as an American. "All part of the procedure."

"Yeah, procedure." Damien muttered, squinting into the spotlights overhead as the torso plate was lowered onto it. "Got it."

"Your first time?"

"Yeah. Be gentle."

The technician laughed. The chest armour interlocked with the back plating with a jolt. Damien was swung upright again, and watched as the shoulder guards were lowered and snapped into place.

"You got a name?" Damien asked the technician.

"Park."

"American?"

"Close. Korean. American-educated on one of the Saturn stations. I'll be your assigned armour technician, Spartan 451 ."

A helmet was lowered over Damien's head. He felt the neck seal hiss as the suit's internal systems pressurised and sealed itself shut from the outside world. Recruit helmet, standard pattern. Shield system nominal, radar system engaged.

With a final frantic litany of clacking clicks and releasing restraints, the auto-locks released him, setting him down on his feet.

The world looked different. He had felt tall before, certainly taller than any non-augmented human, but now he felt giant. His footfalls clanked on the decking with stomping authority. Threat identification markers began scanning their way over the technicians; flitting amber, then green lighting a microsecond later.

What astounded him was the sensation of wearing the armour. A heady combination of raw power and weightlessness. His muscles, already keenly honed, felt three times larger. He was a tank. A living, breathing tank. The entire experience was intoxicating.

"Looking good, 451." Park grinned.

He looked down at Park through his opal blue visor.

"Call me Damien."

* * *

On the ground floor far beneath the gantry section. Park led Damien through a few basic warm up exercises. They started simple. Walking, lifting, crouching, squating, planking. Then they tested sprinting, jumping, and more elaborate forms of body balance exercises. There was some laugher as some of the candidates stumbled and tripped, unused to their new-found size and speed. A resounding clang rang out, and Rashid had to be helped to his feet by Luke when he fell over.

Eric moved from candidate to candidate, offering a quiet word here, a piece of advice there. Rebecca shadowed him, marveling at being surrounded by so many giants at once.

No two Spartans looked the same. Chimera's combat disposition had been the subject of almost ten years of analysis. While traditional inductees to the Laconia Academy would be automatically assigned Recruit pattern armour (as Damien had been), and then allowed to customise it as per their operational requirements, the Chimera candidates had been allocated armour configurations based entirely on predetermined skill sets.

Viktorya was clad in an angular, forward sloping helmet which Damien's HUD identified as Scout pattern reconnaissance armour. Fittingly, Chidinma's had been optimised for aviation, and her helmet mimicked those worn by UNSC pilots. Luke, as one of the more physically imposing members of the squad, was clad in the Warrior pattern, with a single golden slit visor peering out over a prominent faceplate. Rashid - Chimera's designated technical and cyber-warfare specialist - had been allocated the GUNGIR targeting suite; a boxy helm with a single crimson targeting lens.

Chimera were dressed in a uniform baby blue livery. They would remain so until the training program was complete and they were formally cleared for active duty.

They gathered in a huddle, examining one another like a pack of curious monkeys.

Their excited whispering was brought to an end when Eric had them form up in a straight line. He walked up and down the line, his blood red armour a stark contrast with their own.

"Each of you has taken to the Gen 2 system I see. Excellent. My next question is can you fight in it?"

Five nods answered him.

"You'll notice the targeting reticule in the centre of your Heads Up Display. Your armour system will adjust based on weapons to hand, and provide optimum assistance whenever and wherever it can. But let's not get ahead of ourselves. We'll start with the basics."

Eric took a step backward. The technicians stood out of the way, giving him a wide berth. Rebecca did likewise, recording the session through the camera lens of her data pane.

"Which of you have the stones to try and knock me down?"

Five hands went up.

"Ambitious." Eric nodded in approval. He raised his prosthetic arm, beckoning them on with a whirr of servos. "Let's see if there's any merit to it."

The candidates looked at one another, unsure.

It was Viktorya who struck first, bounding forward and throwing a punch almost too fast to see. The others were quick to follow. _Say what you will about the Chimera candidates_, Rebecca thought, _but when one committed, the others followed suit._

What happened next had to be replayed by Rebecca in retrospect. She blinked. Three of the candidates were already on the ground. Damien was laid out on the deck, nursing a wrist that had been wrenched from its socket. Luke lay on his back clutching at his throat. Chidinma was face down some two metres away, seemingly unconscious. A savage kick had planted Rashid on the ground, winded.

Only Viktorya was still engaging the crimson Spartan.

She had always seemed feral, and her fighting style reflected this. She lashed out in fits and starts, her limbs a frenzied blur. They exchanged a dizzying combination of punches, jabs and counter blows. Armour dented and sparked as they clashed.

Viktorya took an elbow to the side of her helmet, and stumbled back. Only by turning the stumble into a neat palm did she dodge Eric's following strike, a slicing roundhouse kick that split the air with a whistle. To her credit, she rallied quickly, grabbing his follow up jab by the wrist and twisting him into a shoulder throw. Eric used the momentum of the throw to roll over her shoulder, landing neatly on his feet. Still, Viktorya held onto his prosthetic arm in a vice-like grip. She hauled it backward, in a classic pressure hold. To an ordinary human, the pain would be excruciating.

Eric was no ordinary human.

With a feral snarl of his own, Eric twisted so hard the arm ripped clean from its socket in a fizzling spurt of sparks and twisted metal. Viktorya, shocked, had little time to react. She was still holding the severed arm, dumbfounded, when Eric smashing his remaining elbow into her visor and knocked her flat. Eric's boot materialised at her throat, pressing her into the ground, gurgling, and ending the fight.

Rebecca checked the time stamp on her data pane. Thirty seconds had elapsed.

"Impressive, Candidate. But there's one thing I'm going to teach you here at this Academy." Eric said, as he raised his voice to address the candidates, who were pulling themselves off the ground. Viktorya was still gurgling beneath his boot. Smoke curled up from the truncated stump of his severed prosthetic.

"Victory at any cost. An arm, a leg, a Spartan: We defeat the enemies of the UNSC because we are willing to commit to actions your opponent isn't capable of _comprehending_, let alone countering."

Eric released Viktorya from beneath his foot. He walked away, only stopping to retrieve his missing arm, which lay twitching and sparking on the deck.

"Technicians, see to this." He turned to Damien, "Candidate 451, bring your men to the infirmary. Get that wrist seen to. Then assemble your Spartans on the combat deck at 14:00. Weapons detail, standard assault pattern. We go again."

The technicians were leading Eric over to where an Armour Assistant was preparing to refit his prosthetic.

"And this time, I expect you to do better."

* * *

Viktorya held the MA5 up in a sweeping pattern. Damien's voice crackled in her ear.

"Clear?"

Viktorya panned the weapon back one last time. Before her, the warehouse was a dimly lit collection of dusty loading crates and mournfully hanging chains. There was a forklift truck ahead of her. A canvass sheet was half-draped over it, like a sleeping ghost. This part of the facility was seldom used. She blink-toggled her vision mode from standard to low-light, then over to heat-scan once again.

Nothing.

She raised a gauntleted fist and waved two fingers forward, before rising to a half-crouch and darting forward. The other members of Chimera picked forward in her wake, sliding into cover with startling quietness for beings of such immense scale. They moved quickly, sweeping for targets as they advanced.

Straight into the kill zone.

The concussion mine killed Viktorya and Rashid outright. Sniper rounds tore out of the darkness, punching clean through Luke's visor and dropping him instantly. Chidinma rose to return fire, her assault rifle blazing away toward where the wispy contrails of the rifle's hung in the air. Her fire was disciplined, textbook suppressive fire. Damien joined her, shoulder to shoulder, his rifle barking as it spat out into the gloom. No more return fire answered back.

Damien ducked over to a packing crate across from Chidi.

"Movement." She reported, ejecting the magazine and slapping a new one home. "100 metres, moving east."

Damien poked out of cover. The pulsing red dot was constant. He frowned. It seemed far too long to be a single radar contact.

"On it. Keep me covered."

A single green acknowledgement light lit up. Damien darted forward, rifle hunting.

He moved past the inert bodies of the rest of Chimera. His HUD was swimming with red-line status report icons, and his cheeks burned with shame. Damien braced against a packing container. The isolated radar contact was around the next corner. He was going to get this bastard. It was time for payback.

Damien lunged around the corner, his BR85 sighted and locked. Then he swore.

It was a cargo escalator, used for shipping heavy items from the gable end of the warehouse to the external roller shutter. The belt-feed carried enough residual heat to trigger the Gen2's sensor system.

"Three, One; it's clear."

There was no response.

"Chimera Three, respond." Damien frowned. "Chidi, respond."

A knife appeared at his throat, tickling the armoured skin with a gentle scrape.

"You're dead, Candidate."

The floodlights snapped on with a harsh jolt.

Eric released Damien from the hold, sheathing his combat knife. In the distance, the others were picking themselves up from the ground, their armour unlocking from where the stun rounds had frozen them in place. Luke groaned. The simulated stun rounds had caught him squarely in the forehead. His head was pounding from a blow which would have knocked a normal human out cold.

"One hundred percent casualties, Candidate. What did we learn?"

"That you alone can kick our arses handily, Sir?"

Eric gestured to where the concussion charge had kicked off the initial ambush, then to the elevated sniper perch he'd taken atop one of the racking decks, then finally to the loading belt he'd used to lure Damien away from Chidinma.

"Asymmetrical warfare. Even in the face of overwhelming numbers, a single determined irregular can wreak untold havoc with the proper application of surprise, misdirection and timely application of direct force. Technological advancement? Availability of resources? _Irrelevant._ Control the battlefield, manage the conditions of when and where you engage your opponent, and your odds of success become a certainty, rather than chance."

"Understood, Sir."

"Squad cohesion was good. You need to calibrate your armour software to dial back on the type of radar contacts it registers. A trick like that loading belt shouldn't have worked the way it did. Speak with your technician, and have your team do likewise."

"Will do, Sir."

Eric nodded and moved off toward the other members of Chimera. Chidinma was approaching him, her helmet in her hands. She looked sheepish as she nursed some of the bruising at her throat.

"How'd he get you?" Damien asked.

"Knife." she replied apologetically, "I didn't even hear him coming. I think he was toying with me."

"I think he was toying with all of us, Three."

They looked over to where Eric was pointing out to Viktorya where concussion mines had been embedded in the underlining of the floor plating. His hand movements were smooth, precise, but there was no disguising the man's passion. It was the most enthusiasm Damien had ever seen the older Spartan display.

"He lives for this." Chidinma marveled.

"I suspect he'll expect us to do the same." Damien replied. "Either that, or we're going to wind up with a hell of a lot more bruising by the end of the week."

* * *

"What did you think, Doctor?"

Rebecca looked up. Director Carter had appeared beside her in the observation lounge overlooking the test area. Once again he was stroking his goattee thoughtfully. Despite his comparatively advanced age and appreciable height, Director Carter had an unnerving knack for appearing seemingly out of nowhere. Not for the first time, Rebecca found herself realising that, for all his authority, she didn't know the first thing about the man known as Idris Carter.

"They got annihilated, Sir."

"To be expected. The Chimera candidates are augmented, and have considerable skills, but there's no substitute for field experience. Today was a timely demonstration."

"A demonstration of what?"

"That for all their promised talent, Chimera still have much to learn. They need this program."

They turned back to where Eric had assembled the candidates. He was pointing up at the racking, then gesturing to his sniper rifle. Discussing angles of attack, relocation and misdirection. The candidates huddled around, nodding as they listened and took notes.

"He scares me."

"Our resident instructor?"

"He's so… violent. So ruthless. Earlier today, he tore his own arm off just to win."

"Eric's one of our best. He wouldn't be part of this program otherwise."

"And when it becomes time for him to retire, what do we do with him then? How does a man like that fit back into society?"

Idris Carter didn't even blink.

"I think you'll find, Doctor, that few Spartans ever have the luxury of contemplating their retirement."

"I want to interview him. Assess him for signs of mental trauma. I've seen what happened to his face. The candidates may be combat certified and cleared for instruction, but him? I'm not so sure."

"I would not recommend this line of inquiry, Doctor. Spartan Three's were humans weaponised; a darker solution from a darker time. There are no happy memories down that path."

"So that's it then? Eric's to be used as a tool, and that's the end of it?"

"Your input to date has been both valuable and appreciated, Doctor, but Spartan 239's psych-record cannot and will not be made open to civilian inquiry. End of discussion."

"Understood, Sir."

The Director nodded, then turned and strode out of the room, leaving her alone.

It was the closest thing to anger Rebecca had ever seen from the Director. She knew full well that her continued hospitality on Laconia depended solely on Director Carter's continued favour. Not something she wanted to jeopardise. Not directly.

"Kaizen." Rebecca asked aloud.

"Yes Doctor?" the A.I.'s voice piped through her data-lace.

"You hear all that?"

"I did, Doctor. And I am sorry, but Director Carter is correct. I cannot provide assistance on this matter, in accordance with UNSC Regulation A-302-230-491, Article AE4, Subsection Two, which states that no civilian inter-"

"Got it, Kai. Thanks."

Rebecca frowned. That certainly closed that avenue of investigation.

_Unless…_

She saw Rashid through the reinforced observation glass. He was kneeling over one of the inert concussion mines. His helmet lay on the deck by his feet. Ever inquisitive, he had broken the mine down into its constituent parts, and was examining the wiring of his own GUNGIR sensor system. No doubt hoping to concoct some form of unorthodox early-warning system.

A smile crept across Rebecca's lips.

_Bingo._


	13. Chapter IX: War Games

_"When the program began, a junior staffer once asked me, why only seven squads were chosen from the initial intake. Surely it would make more sense to have an even number, and test both candidates and equipment with matching numbers on an equal footing. But this is war, and no battlefield is ever on an equal footing._

_Besides, they're Spartans. They're used to being outnumbered."_

- personal notes of Director Idris Carter, retrieved 2561.

* * *

Thirty five giants stood in the assembly hall beneath the armour gantry, wrapped in sleeve suits and standing to attention. Director Carter and Eric 239 stood before them. Behind them, a veritable army of drill masters, scientists, technical specialists and armour engineers stood ready.

"Candidates," Director Carter began, "Today marks a very special day for this Academy. A beginning, an auspicious opening chapter in what I will hope will be a long and storied history."

Director Carter paused. His eyes, deep and solemn, moved from candidate to candidate. They were each larger than him, stronger and more physically powerful, but the authority he projected was absolute. For their own part, the candidates were a diverse mix of cultures and backgrounds; men and women whose only shared characteristic was a singular defining drive to be the best. Damien stood shoulder to shoulder with the other members of Chimera, surrounded on both sides by the new inductees; all shorn-headed and strong. It felt strange, to be amongst so many people of a similar scale. For a fleeting moment he almost felt normal.

"But it is a history that only you and I will know. A tradition that will be carried forward quietly; without bravado, without fanfare. The work we will do here is fundamental to the ongoing security of our great civilisation, and because of its importance, the existence of this Academy - and others like it - will remain a secret, closely guarded."

Damien felt Carter's eyes upon him like a jolt. He looked at each of them in turn, seldom blinking. The director's voice was a strong baritone, deep and resonant.

"The people you defend will never know the full lengths you will go in order to protect them, appreciate the hardships you will endure. Understand the sacrifices you will make. But allow me to say this here and now: for as long as this Academy stands, your service - from this day until the end of days - shall never be forgotten. Make us proud."

The Director saluted. Thirty five hands snapped up in return. Carter turned smartly on his heel and made for the exit, a half dozen aides trailing in his wake.

Eric stepped forward, his cruelly scarred face focused and determined. He beckoned the candidates forward with a newly installed prosthetic arm.

"Billets have been assigned to you based on your fire team allocation. Five Spartans per team, seven teams within the initial program. Chimera, you've been here longer than the others, so you'll have to cut the others a little slack while they get settled in."

Eric smiled at Chimera knowingly. Damien could feel the air of hostility wash off the candidate to his immediate right, a goliath of a man whose neck was coated in Maori tribal tattoos.

Damien did his best not to frown. He could feel eyes flick in his direction.

Mounted on the far end of the training room was a large visual display, inset into the smooth-cut permacrete wall. On the screen was a series of names; _Castle, Chimera, Jackal, Apex, Wolf, Trident, Platinum_. Beneath each fire team heading were the individual names of each of the Spartans within the team, and a series of empty numbers. Eric pointed at it.

"The Combat Score. Individually assessed, with personal performance listed with deference to the overall team score. Accuracy, field work, squad cohesion. Individual excellence is encouraged. Individual excellence to the detriment of your wider squad is not. Questions?"

A hand went up. It was a handsome man, whose square jaw, clipped blonde hair and steely grey eyes seemed stolen from a movie poster. The fire team badge on his chest depicted the crest of Fireteam Platinum; a silver eagle clutching a BR-85 in its grasping talons. He wore a cocky smile on his face as he raised his hand. The tattoo on his neck was a Helljumper skull and cross bones, detailed in black ink. There was a sense of certainty to him, an arrogance bred from confident success.

"Spartan Keller." Eric nodded.

"What are we playing to win for, Sir?"

"Teams at the highest standing will be competing for their choice of assignment postings. Those at the very top will have their pick of the scenario conditions in the next simulation, priority selection over the ordinance selection and armour fittings. Even vehicle selection, in certain scenarios."

"And those at the bottom, Sir?" Damien asked.

"Those at the bottom will have to win the right to better themselves. And in doing so, avoiding guard duty, and other drum assignments. We don't encourage mediocrity here, as you are aware, Candidate."

Chase Keller caught Damien's eye. He still wore a smile on his face, but it was all mouth and no eyes.

"Any other questions?" Eric asked. "No? Good. Get rigged and prep for hard-light simulation. Time to see what you're made of."

* * *

"You isolated them."

Eric wheeled about. Rebecca was standing behind him in the corridor, doing her best not to get swept away in the bustling foot traffic moving through the corridor. The candidates had dispersed, moving to prep for the upcoming simulation.

"'Them', Doctor?"

"Chimera. Before your sent them into the combat scenario, you made a point of showing favouritism toward them. It set them out from the others. Raised them up, made them out to be a rival worth competing with."

"I did."

"Why?"

"Chimera aren't like the others. They're talented, there's no question of that. But we don't want them integrating, not too closely. Chimera were designed for independence in the field. If they start integrating, they lose that edge. The other fire-teams have bonded through three months of adverse selection and arduous augmentation. Chimera have not."

It was true. Even when loosely assembled, Chimera had stood apart from the others. Even Viktorya, aloof and the most overtly solitary of the squad, had huddled closer to her fire-team when the rest of the candidates had gathered around.

"Integration is inevitable. How do you propose to keep them isolated?"

"Simple. I'm going to make them believe they can't count on anybody but themselves."

* * *

Chimera moved through the swamp land, gliding silently down the still river like stalking crocodiles. Only their head and the muzzle of their weapon systems peaked out above the slimy, grimy water. Friendly radar signatures fanned out either side of them. East of their position, Fireteam _Trident_ were advancing steadily, picking through the trees with practiced caution. Their point man was a seasoned scout by the name of Suraj, a former Gurkha, and a well practiced and a seasoned fighter. Fireteam _Platinum_, commanded by the decidedly self-assured Chase, were flanking west, encircling the A.O., an armoured bunker nestled in the treeline ahead. Damien had not caught sight of Platinum since the scenario commenced, and none of his attempts at opening a squad to squad line had been answered.

Visibility was down to fifty metres, on account of the thickness of the vegetation. Thick tubers snagged and tangled and tugged at their ankles, and the sun overhead dappled through the sweaty canopy of leaves and intertwining branches. Chimera moved up out of the river, hunkering low against the mossy bark of the trees. The air smelled of damp earth and wet leaves. The noise of the canopy; the chirping and chittering of insects, the whoop and return call of some colourful species of bird overhead, sounded louder than any crowded hallway in the Academy.

The view beyond the tree Chimera were hiding beneath wasn't a view at all. A thick latticework of twisting vines blocked visibility. Viktorya bellied her way through the muck, the streaking grime painting her soft blue armour a murky brown. The others hung back, awaiting her signal. She picked her way forward, carefully. That such an armoured figure could creep forward so silently was a testament to her skill. Damien moved out behind her. As squad leader, he would be second in line. Viktorya would be his eyes. As point man, the responsibility she carried for the group was a heavy burden. Their safety was often, quite literally, in her hands. For his part, Damien trusted her absolutely. There was nobody sharper in Chimera.

Viktorya reached the obscuring thicket ahead. She reached forward, drawing her knife and using it to prise a gap so she could peak through.

Gunfire split the air. Vines shredded and pulped. Torn leaves spat up in the air, as tracers zipped overhead and slapped into the muck. Hard rounds whickered into the bark, as a detonation of birds erupted from the canopy, fleeing from the commotion. Vikorya snarled, rolling backward as her shield system sparked and flared.

"Contact!" Rashid reported, raising his rifle and firing.

Something shrieked as it torn down through the canopy overhead. A sucking column of fire and muck erupted in front of Damien, lifting him off his feet and dumping him on his back with a clack. Burning clumps of dirt spattered across his faceplate as he scrambled onto his belly and clawed his way back to cover. The jungle all around him was on fire. He could taste blood in his mouth. The air stank of scorched wood. All around him, BR-85's and concerted DMR fire began to light up, popping and snapping. In the distance, the rattling whine of a mounted assault weapon began to clatter like a murderous sewing machine.

Luke emerged from the river behind them, water streaming off his armour. A second artillery round had thrown him back into the water. He looked absurdly clean compared to the rest of them.

"What'd I miss?!" he breathed, ducking down into cover beside Chidinma.

Damien's eyes glanced at the motion sensor. The area ahead was awash with red contacts ahead. Maximum range, and even then that was with a boosted signal Rashid had beamed to his HUD. A single large blip represented the heavy field piece the defenders were using to deny Chimera's advance. Alien tech, plasma-based.

"They have range on this position." Damien exclaimed, "Spartans, spread out, clear the kill zone!"

Chimera split up, losing themselves in the jungle. Artillery fire was thundering down, throwing up great gouts of boiling muck. On the hilltop ahead sat an iridescent purple Type 26 Assault Gun Carriage, commonly known as a Wraith Battle Tank. Its hover engine thrummed as it prepared to vomit another comet of blue plasma from its throat. Damien could see the sun glinting off red armoured shapes as they darted from cover to cover, staying low in the tangled foliage clinging to the hillside ahead. Damien could only make out the gun emplacements by the muzzle flash, licking out like darts of flame.

Fireteams Wolf and Castle had spread themselves out in front of the tank, a classic infantry screen. The terrain ahead was a steep climb, and their movements were masked by the thick canopy bearding the hillside. By contrast, the vegetation three hundred metres ahead of Chimera had been flattened by the weight of fire being thrown down by the defending force. Where once there had been lush canopy, the sun now beat down freely upon a charred hellscape, where blackened tree stumps poked up from the ruined earth like spindly grave posts. Or frozen hands on a corpse. Wolf and Castle had an elevated position, with superior lines of fire and pre-sighted weapon emplacements. A direct assault was tantamount to suicide, madness by any description.

Which is why Chimera went for it anyway.

"Two, Five; attack spread, with me! Three and Four, covering fire!"

Damien rose out of cover, bounding forward. Luke and Viktorya joined him. They spread out, each taking a different running line toward the waiting emplacements. A mounted machine gun began blazing in Damien's direction, hard rounds ripping up tufts of spitting dirt as they arced toward him. Damien threw himself in a smouldering pit carved into the middle of No Man's Land by a plasma shell, pressing himself flat as the bullets danced across the lip of the crater.

"Anytime now, Chidi!"

There was resounding thump from behind him, the kind of rib-shaking crack only an anti-material rifle can make. The machine gun fell abruptly silent.

"You're clear, One." Chidinma reported, re-sighting and firing again.

Damien bolted out of the crater, exploding into a full sprint. Damien was fast, faster than any human sprinter could be. But even he had his limits. Two other machine gun nests opened up. He took a round to the chest, lost his footing. He fell, caught out in the open. Damien rolled behind the mangled ruin of a tree bole, which was promptly pulped by the incoming fire. He hunkered lower, doing his best to ignore the keening bleat of his suit's warning system in his ears. He could see Luke's ident signature. He too was doing his best to become one with the mangled terrain.

"Five, One. I'm suppressed - sit rep?"

"Pinned down about two hundred metres east of your position, Chief." Luke replied, sounding positively cheerful, despite the chatter of gunfire in the background, "Remind me again why I signed up for this?"

"We'll put your can-do attitude to good use, Five. Four, this is One; I need some concealment here."

Rashid came back over the com.

"Already on it, One; popping smoke just ahead of you. Give it a second to settle."

Rashid rose from his concealed position at the edge of the surviving tree-line, a grenade launcher in his hands. He thumped a grenade out over No Man's Land. He cracked the breach of the launcher, and slapped a second grenade home, before pumping that out too. The smoke canisters tumbled onto the ground just ahead of Damien's position. The smoke shells began to hiss as they vented smoke up in great, twisting arcs. The wind carried it upward, slowly, steadily blocking the bunker from view. Damien half rose behind the ruined tree stump, watching as three more smoke shells fell down around the clearing. With a metallic pop, they too began venting smoke. The suppressive fire laid down by the defending emplacements became hesitant, then silenced altogether. The air grew watchful and wary.

"Chimera, prepare to advance."

The entire horizon was just a great churning wall of white smoke.

"Move!"

They sprinted forward. At a full pace, the five members of Chimera stormed through the sifting smoke, armoured boots churning muck and stomping twigs. Damien primed a grenade as he charged forward, hurling it blindly toward the hillside ahead. He heard the dull crump as it detonated, but had no idea whether he'd hit anything or not. The ground beneath his feet became steeper, and the trees segued from scorched matchsticks to bullet-chipped trees once more. Chimera had crossed No Man's Land against all odds.

Now the uphill battle began.

The fight moved into its second phase, one defined by close range snap-shooting as the Spartans belly-crawled forward, hugging the earth as the defenders rose to meet them. Jungle fighting is a bitter, frenzied experience. You fire at snatch-glimpses of the enemy, and put round after round into areas where you think the enemy should be, rather than where you know they are. Even with their sensor suites and advanced targeting optics, the battlefield of the 26th was no different. Luke rucked in behind a brace of two inter-leaning trees, his assault rifle blazing in short, controlled bursts. His fire was more to keep the enemy's heads down, rather than actually hit anything. He loosed off a frag for a good measure, ducking down as a sift of shredded foliage rained down overhead. Return fire snapped past, causing his shields to buzz as the rounds skimmed by.

Chimera's approach from the base of the hillside was beneath the effective deployment elevation of the defender's gun emplacements. The Wraith too was forced to rely on its pintle-mount plasma turret, which fizzled and spat hundreds of plasma bolts down toward them. Whole sections of the jungle caught fire. Rashid thumped a grenade up toward the top of the hill, then took a moment to dial his sensor suite back to track electromagnetic signatures, rather than movement or heat. In this mess, there was too much of either.

Grenades filled the air, exchanging hands between attackers and defenders with manic speed. Shrapnel sliced into the outer skin of Damien's armour, embedding itself in the plating covering his fore-arms like a thousand tiny pricking needles. Still he advanced, his rifle kicking in his hands as he returned fire. Viktorya moved up beside him, the harsh bark of her DMR a stark contrast with the rattling spit of his BR-85. Damien smoothly reloaded, banging a fresh magazine against his shoulder pauldron to clear the loading assembly of grit before clicking the magazine home. Confirming kills didn't matter to Damien, not yet. Combat footage playback would allow bragging rights later.

If there was a later.

One of the enemy Spartans appeared at the top of the hill in front of him. Frustrated with the confining angle of his assault weapon's bi-pod, the hostile Spartan had torn his machine gun free from its hinges, and was using it to engage Chimera directly. Trees splintered and collapsed as the rotary cannon licked a line of fire down the hillside, shredding everything in its path. Damien had no more cover; the trees around him had simply vanished in tufts of bark. Fear and self doubt lanced into his belly, causing the hairs on his neck to prickle against the sealed neck guard of his suit. He was caught out in the open. There was nowhere to go, no divot or crater to leap into this time. The rotary cannon angled toward him. The enemy Spartan's finger hovered over the firing stud. The weapon would cycle up, and then he would be dead. For all their courage, Chimera would be cut to shreds, exposed and alone in a bloody, fruitless charge.

From seemingly out of nowhere, a blue armoured figure emerged from the thicket and landed on the red Spartan's back. A wicked looking khukuri blade sunk into the surprised man's throat. The assault weapon tumbled from his hands. The newcomer, Suraj, ripped the khukuri free and cast the dead Spartan aside. He raised up a hand, beckoning to somebody unseen in the tree line. Other blue armoured figures, their idents a strong green on the tactical grid, stormed in from a position parallel to the defenders on the eastern side of the hill. The defenders turned to respond, but their line had been spread out to deny Chimera's audacious assault. They were not disposed for a fight on equal footing. Trident had been delayed, favouring to skirt the edge of the clearing rather than opt on a direct assault. Now it was time for their patience to pay off.

Catching the defenders off-balance, Trident cut deep into the eastern flank, turning the defensive line in upon itself.

One of Trident was larger than any of the other Spartans. He had appropriated one of the silenced weapon emplacements from its fallen operators, and had turned it on its former owners with ruthless abandon. The cannon licked out sheets of flame once more; this time against Chimera's enemies. Two of the defending Spartans jinked and danced as their armour was split apart and torn open. The giant advanced steadily, the cannon thundering in his hands. He roared a challenge, the sound distorted and made terrifyingly mechanical through the filter of his helmet speakers.

In the distance, the Wraith exploded. Two more members of Trident emerged from the brush, one of them hefting a shoulder-mounted missile launcher.

The weight of fire raining down on Chimera had disappeared entirely. The defenders, so caught up with the marauding fire team biting into their flank, had forgotten about Chimera's push entirely. Damien saw the opportunity and seized it.

"Advance, Chimera!" he yelled into the squad channel, "Into them!"

Chimera roared a battle cry of their own, and clawed their way up the hill, weapons free and spitting. Damien closed on one of the defenders, who was struggling with choosing between dealing with the enemy gleefully dismantling their defensive line from the flank, or the encroaching charge from the base of the hill. Damien didn't give him a moment to decide. He planted three solid bursts through the man's visor. The man toppled, boneless; a clean kill. Rashid made Chimera's second kill, planting a smoke grenade square into a man's chest, before closing in with the butt of the launcher itself. The weapon dented as he smashed it into the winded Spartan's throat. Luke bellowed a challenge as he crashed through the undergrowth, the shotgun in his hands thundering as it blew one of the defenders clear of a jammed machine gun.

As the melee drew to a close, the jungle continued to shriek and squawk and bleat, as a thousand animals reacted to the violence with a frenzied cacophony of their own.

For a blessed moment, the gunfire fell silent. The only sound was rush of the wind through the trees, and the hum of shield systems restoring themselves, as the attackers' armour recovered from the mayhem. Gun smoke twisted upward into the bright morning sky.

Chimera met Trident at the summit of the smouldering hill. Both teams were coated in soot and fried, spattered flecks of burnt foliage. They nodded at one another in greeting. A good battle, well fought.

Trident's giant lowered his cannon, its barrel glowing red hot. The man's armour was pitted and cracked from where bullets had spanked off the metal. One of his shoulder pauldrons had been torn clean off by a stray round. The golden trident on his remaining shoulder badge had a name beneath it: Aata.

"You fight well, Chimera." the hulking Maori said.

"Likewise." Damien clapped him on the arm, and moved past to greet Trident's leader, a more standard sized Spartan by the name of Loic. Loic approached him with a casual salute. Damien had only known him from the initial briefing. Frenchman, ex-ODST, recently augmented. A solid fighter, all told.

"You have my thanks, Damien. You have balls, as they say."

"They wouldn't be saying that for much longer if you hadn't shown up, Trident One. It's appreciated."

Loic nodded, then indicated to the north, where Red Team had initially dispersed from.

"They will be regrouping soon. Trident will hold the surface. The bunker is yours to take, my friend."

Only it wasn't. Chimera discovered this once they ducked inside, their helmet flashlights piercing the shadowy gloom of the bunker's interior. It had already been cleared. It was an abattoir. A scattered pile of red-armoured bodies lay strewn across the rough stone floor of the permacrete bunker. Knife wounds, clean and precise. The prize, Red Team's flag, was missing from its plinth.

"Damien, we've got company." Rashid's voice announced over the com. He had boosted his system's sensor suite to account for the thickness of the bunker walls. New radar contacts had become apparent. It was Red Team, regrouped and charging en masse. Alone against three revenge-set fire teams, Trident's tenuous position topside would be overwhelmed.

"Upstairs, now!"

Suddenly, the bunker vanished. The smell of scorched earth was gone, and the sounds in his ears too. The deck around him was smooth metal. He was suspended in a frame not unlike the Armour Assistant. The jungle was naught but a vivid memory.

A battle, a vivid, visceral, jaw-rattling battle. He could feel the grime on his armour, but a simulation nonetheless. The restraints holding his arms aloft popped open with a clack. He stepped down onto the deck. Damien could still feel every bruise and bump covering his skin. His armour was spotlessly clean though, as pristine as it had been when mounted this morning. He shook himself, running a hand along the guardrail lining the walkway. Reminding himself that it was real.

He glanced up at the combat scores displayed on the wide-screen projector mounted on the wall of the chamber. Out of the six teams participating in the exercise, Chimera had placed third, shortly behind Trident, whose impressive flanking effort had won them the second highest position on the board.

"Strange isn't it?" a voice said. It was Loic, who had doffed his helmet and approached Damien's Simulation Frame. He was Earth-born, a hard eyed Frenchman of Algerian descent, with tanned skin and a gaunt face. "To have fought so hard, only to come second place."

Damien looked over to where Loic was pointing.

Fireteam Platinum topped the board. It had been a flawless performance, with a perfect score to prove it. They had infiltrated the bunker, secured the objective and eliminated Fireteam Jackal without alerting the defenders above. No casualties. Chimera and Trident's assault had been all the distraction they needed. An impressive assault, certainly, and a textbook counter ambush by anyone's measure, but success in this scenario had predicated on the timely extraction of the enemy flag. In this, Platinum had used Chimera and Trident entirely to its own advantage. Their combat score reflected this.

Damien could feel somebody looking at him.

He looked over. It was Platinum One, the candidate known as Chase Keller. Outside of the simulation, his Pathfinder armour was dressed in the uniform pearlescent white shared amongst members of Fireteam Platinum. Even hidden by a golden visor, Damien could tell Chase was watching him. Waiting to see how he'd react, knowing that he'd use them in such a fashion. The man's ambition was palpable. Damien turned his back on him, removing his helmet and smiling at Loic. He'd be damned if he gave him the satisfaction.

"There will be other battles." Damien shrugged.

"And doubtless fights where we are not all on the same side." Loic replied, extending his hand. "Chimera fight with fury. I will look forward to the day when you stand at our side, and the fight is real."

Damien shook it. He could still feel Chase's eyes burning two small holes in the back of his helmet.

"It never hurts to have friends."


	14. Chapter X: Challenge Accepted

_"Chimera's performance to date?"_

_"Satisfactory. They're still third in the standings, four weeks in. Chidinma's flight scores are keeping them in the running. Rashid's technical aptitude scores too. Platinum we expected to be good, but Trident are proving to be the real surprise."_

_"'Satisfactory'. You promised us that the Chimera candidates would be _exceptional_."_

_"And they are. But they are competing with exceptional people, Sir; many of whom have real military experience. Give them time."_

_"They've had time. Ten years and counting. In the same time we could have outfitted an entire armoured division, for about half the cost. Your belief had better not be misplaced, Director."_

_"Chimera will deliver, Sir, I have faith."_

_"I hope you have more than that, Director. Ask the Covenant: faith doesn't win wars."_

_"No, Sir: Spartans do."_

- transcript recorded from [REDACTED] Committee Meeting, January 2557 (retrieved 2561)

* * *

Viktorya stepped into the armoury, absently rubbing at her bruised shoulder. Hand to hand combat drills had been running for most of the morning, and six hours of throws and counter throws had taken their toll. She moved past a rack of MA5B assault rifles stored neatly on a rack, toward where a selection of long range rifles were kept. Here were the precision tools: the designated marksman rifles and the box-scoped anti-material rifles, the precision beam weapons; hard-packed and inert in their plastic-moulded storage casing. The air was thick with gun oil, a metallic petrochemical stink that cloyed at the back of your throat. Viktorya loved that smell.

She heard a scrape behind her.

She wasn't alone in the room. It was one of the members of Fireteam Trident, the comparatively diminutive scout, Suraj. Neatly folded on the table beside him was a worn leather roll-case, containing a series of small sharpening blades, a battered antique compass, and a compact suture kit. Suraj was sharpening the wicked edge of his signature khukuri with one of the sharpening blades. From the look of it, it didn't need any more sharpening. He looked up and offered a polite smile. Like her, Suraj was a man of few words, though polite to a fault. She hadn't noticed him, sitting there in the corner, as quiet as a shadow but for the scrape of the knife.

"Hello, Chimera." he said, scraping the sharpening knife back and forth.

Viktorya nodded at him silently, her eyes on the knife. It was a look of professional appreciation. Suraj noticed her interest and smiled, somewhat bashfully.

"The khukuri. My people have used this weapon for hundreds of years. Do you have a weapon of your own?"

Viktorya simply shook her head. Suraj held it up in the light, turning it. The weapon had a curious forward slant at the front of the blade, almost looking like it had been dented forward. The grip was also leather, well-worn and inscribed with dozens of tiny etchings. Family markings, probably, or religions icons or vows of honour. Their meaning was lost on her.

"It represents more than just a weapon. To the Gurkhas, it is a symbol of our heritage, our honour and martial pride. It reminds us of our place in the universe. Of who we are."

He thumbed the sharp edge of the blade. Blood welled up on his finger, and slid down to two little notches at the base of the blade above the hilt. He looked up at her intently.

"Our edge is sharp."

Viktorya stepped closer to examine the blade. Suraj deftly spun the knife in his hand, offering it to her, pommel first. She took it, testing the weight in her hands.

"Do you see the notches?" he asked, pointing to just above the grip. She nodded.

"They stop the blood from ruining your grip. You do not lose control." Suraj offered a cheerful smile, "An Elite's neck is thick, but not too thick, you understand?"

It was true. The neat droplet of Suraj's blood had slicked down the front of the weapon, welling into the notches as promised. Viktorya nodded in appreciation, before handing the knife back to him. It was only then that she noticed Rebecca standing in the doorway, looking decidedly pale. Suraj continued to study the knife, entirely oblivious.

"You are looking for somebody, Doctor?" Viktorya asked, half glancing aside. The weapon held considerable fascination.

"I was looking for Rashid."

"Armoury." Both Spartans answered in unison, transfixed by the gleaming knife.

Rebecca swallowed and left the two killers to their own devices.

* * *

Rashid hissed in frustration as the plasma torque slipped from his fingers, hitting the deck with a hollow metallic clank. The Chief Armour Engineer, Park, grinned and handed it back up to him. Rashid was half suspended in an Armour Assistant chassis; his lower body still encased, his powerful upper body exposed from the shoulders up. The chest plate hung loosely off his torso, the seals half-popped. The Armour Assistant's servo-limbs were folded back and inert, like the legs of a dead spider. With his feet locked in the restraint stirrups, the standard issue Army field engineer kit was distressingly just beyond reach.

This wasn't the first time Park had stooped to retrieve the torque.

"You know, strictly speaking, you're not even supposed to be meddling with your armour. That's the machine's job."

"Perhaps."

"I'm sensing a 'but' here."

"… _but_ if I'm going to be wearing this into combat, I want to make it _mine_. To know how it works. How it can be improved."

"Gen 2's bleeding edge. Hard to improve."

"Everything can be improved, my good man; it's simply a question of persistence."

"Mhm, I'll bet." Park replied amiably, "Torch-cutter?"

"Please."

The echoes of Rebecca's flat shoes against the gantry sounded comically tiny compared to the reverberating clang of the passing Spartans. She ducked amongst them, feeling all the while like a child cutting across the crowded dance floor of a particularly bulky wedding. A particularly sterile, monstrous wedding. She found Rashid, half trussed up in the Armour Assistant. Pieces of discarded armour (and fallen tools) littered the gantry floor. Rashid had one arm locked up in a servo-restraint. The other was stabbing a sparking torch into the wrist guard of the tethered hand, attempting to prise away a seal that evidently wouldn't be prised.

"Rashid?" she called out.

The torch-cutter tinged as it clattered to the deck. Rashid swore violently, then glanced up. Shock lifted his eyebrows.

"Doctor Pearson!" he smiled sheepishly.

Park wordlessly retrieved the torch-cutter and stood to one side. Chimera's personal shrink was something of an oddity to on-base personnel, and not the kind of oddity Park had any interest in getting himself mixed up in.

"Hi Rashid," Rebecca said, looking up at the trussed up Spartan, "Do you have a moment?"

"He's a bit tied up at the moment." Park remarked.

"Very droll, Mr. Park." Rashid glowered, "Can you give us a moment?"

The technician shrugged, punching a button on the side of the Armour Assistant which released Rashid from his restraint clamps. The tech offered a single magnanimous bow, then made himself scarce on the far side of the chamber. The Spartan stepped down from the chassis, sparing a moment to scowl at the treacherous tool box Park had left behind.

"How can I help you, Doctor? Another story perhaps? Perhaps a game of chess?"

"I was hoping you might be able to do me a favour, Rashid."

"Ah, a _favour_." Rashid smiled wickedly, "Far more dangerous. One moment."

Rashid retrieved his helmet from magnetic holding restraint of the Armour Assistant. He glanced up at the observation deck, then reached for a plasma cutter. He made a subtle adjustment to something inside the GUNGIR system's helmet seal. The cutter flared once, and something sparked within the helmet. He wordlessly beckoned to Rebecca, nodding at her data pad. A finger was pressed to his lips, prompting silence. She handed the data pad over, confused. He tapped a series of commands into the slate, the finger movements too fast to follow. Her neural lace abruptly went offline with a descending electronic sigh.

Rashid handed the data pad back to her.

"There."

"You're being monitored?"

"Goodness no, Doctor." Rashid leaned forward, conspiratorially, "_We_ are being monitored. You and I; Civilian and Spartan."

Rashid fixed her with a curious aside glance, the corner of his lip curled in amusement.

"Or did you think the tracking software they installed in your neural lace was simply a welcome gift? Subtle software, certainly, but as always they underestimate me."

Rashid looked pointedly toward the observation walkway. A duo of technicians, broader and muscled than the other armour specialists within the assembly chamber, had suddenly materialised on the walkway. They were staring directly down at the doctor and the Spartan.

"Do you see, Doctor? Speak quickly, we don't have much in the way of time before they get suspicious. You wanted a favour."

"It's Eric. I've been looking into his background."

"And was there anything to find? Quickly now, those men above are watching."

"There's nothing. No service records which aren't redacted, no colony of origin; hell, there's not even a surname attached to his file. Director Carter shut me down, Kaizen too."

"Shocking." Rashied said softly.

"I was hoping for some sort insight. I've dealt with PTSD cases before; there's something about him. Something that happened. I want to know what it was."

"Difficult. Eric is a ghost because he was designed to be a ghost."

"So you can't find out?"

Rashid smiled. There was a gleam in his eye; a dangerous curiosity.

"I said _difficult_. Not impossible."

The techs had descended a ladder, and were making their way over to them. Rashid spoke quickly, one eye on them.

"Give me two week, Doctor. I'll need to be careful, doubly so now after this. I'll need a data pad with secure access to the UNSC Mil-Link. Not yours, before you ask."

"Why not?" she asked.

"Because there may be repercussions." Rashid replied. The overseers were almost at them. One of them called out, sternly.

"Two weeks, Doctor." Rashid repeated. "Go now."

Then he reactivated the listening device inside his helmet. Rebecca switched her data pad back on, doing her best to feign a frown. Acting was not her strong suit. She could feel the technicians collective glare on the back of her neck.

"Gentlemen, was there something you require?" Rashid asked innocently.

"You're conducting unsanctioned tests on classified UNSC war material." one of them frowned, "Explain yourself."

"Gladly, although you'll have to excuse me, Doctor Pearson, but I'm afraid our catch-up shall have to wait: this is about to become rather technical and decidedly tedious."

"I'll take my leave, then." Rebecca smiled, nodding politely at the two techs

Even as she left, Rashid still had the conspiratorial look in his eyes. So the grouchy veteran Spartan has a background blacker than a singularity. The Spartan smiled inwardly as he launched in a thoroughly detailed and somewhat unnecessarily verbose explanation of his armour modifications.

_Challenge accepted._

* * *

The rifle cracked in his hands. He felt the burring-recoil reverberate through his arm, the kick of the gun against his naked cheek. Heard that satisfying tinkle as bullet casings tumbled to the floor. Smelled that smell of cordite.

The timer buzzed. Damien snapped the barrel of the rifle down and switched magazine, his fingers moving with practiced ease. Within seconds the buzzer sounded again. A trio of new targets popped up down range. Old school cardboard cut-outs, the type used in civilian training programs. Each depicted a snarling alien, pantomime caricatures with glinting fangs and villainous ember eyes.

Not for much longer. Rifle up, snap to target. The rifle kicked once more. Cardboard became splintered mush. Tight spacing in the center mass. Tight groupings at maximum range. Solid marksmanship.

The buzzer sounded a final blurt and the drill ended. Damien placed the BR-85 on the prep table in front of him, rendering it safe and began field stripping the weapon down to its constituent parts. His hands moved fluidly, unscrewing and click-sliding parts free as necessary.

A second series of gunshots rang out, the sound deeper this time. The bark of a DMR sounded out three times. Three matching holes appeared in each of Damien's target's. Head-shots, clean and precise.

Damien doffed his ear protectors, setting them on the table alongside the half-stripped BR-85. He stepped back and looked at the firing booth to his right.

It was one of Fireteam Platinum, judging from the shoulder insignia. The large South African, the one with the trimmed moustache and the scarred, weather-beaten face. His arms were like hams, and the skin inked heavily in tattoos that had stretched out of shape as his body adjusted to the stretching bulk of augmentation. Damien wasn't the best with names, but the distorted Helljumper tattoo told him enough to know that he wasn't a friend.

The brute smiled at him. Though his eyes were broadly hidden by the orange-tinted eye protectors, the smile itself was evidently all teeth.

"Hendric." the taller man nodded.

"Damien."

"You are Chimera's leader, eh?" It wasn't really a question. Like Chidinma, the man's enunciation was clipped and precise. Each syllable was carefully pronounced, but where Chidi's voice was musically delicate, Hendric's was cold and efficient, matching the well-oiled DMR in his hands.

"They say we ought to look out for you boys. That you are not natural."

"They say a lot of things, apparently. Nice shooting."

"Ten years ODST." A glint of icy pride flickered in the man's eyes, "In combat I go for centre mass, but these targets, they are easy to hit you know? Did you serve?"

"No."

"You've never killed?"

"Never."

"So it's true then."

"What is?"

"You Chimera boys. You're some kind of experiment. Abducted children, conscripts. The others are all talking."

"I didn't realise this was an Academy for gossips."

"It's not." An ugly edge entered Hendric's voice. His shoulders tensed as he stood upright, emphasising his towering frame. "But it's not an Academy for freaks either."

"That's quite enough, Hendric." a new voice said behind him. Platinum's Fireteam Leader, Chase, had appeared behind them. Like them he was wearing orange eye protectors and a sleeve suit. Chase dismissed Hendric with a flick of his head.

"Sir." Hendric saluted sharply and disappeared to the weapon checkout desk.

Chase studied him for a moment. The expression in his steely grey eyes was calculating. Damien wasn't sure whether he was being sized up as a potential peer or just another target down range. He imagined it was a bit of both, and did his utmost to hide his surprise at the unintentional compliment.

Chase looked out toward the targets, running his tongue across the top row of his teeth. He chose his words carefully.

"I apologise for Hendric's… bluntness. He's not the most subtle man in the world, but second to none in a firefight. On Calypso I saw him down three Brutes single-handed, using nothing but small arms fire, an anti-tank mine and an entrenchment tool."

"I imagine that kind of experience is what makes him such a charming conversationalist." Damien didn't blink as he met Chase's gaze openly, "Chimera do so love being called freaks."

Chase cocked his head to one side, eyes narrowed.

"My point is that Hendrics did all that pre-augmentation. No power armour, no problem. He didn't need a Gen2 combat chassis or a cocktail of gene-enhancement to make him a proper soldier."

"And you're saying we do?"

"I'm saying you're good, but there's better. I've studied the combat logs. There's nascent promise there. But it's doctored; a performance perfected in a lab. On the battlefield, there's no real substitute for combat experience."

Chase handed him a briefing wafer packet. It was one of the wisp-thin paper mission assignments doled out to candidates before

"Your team have been paired with Platinum on the next Op. Escort mission, Tier One Asset." Chase said, "Screw this up for us, and you'll regret it, Chimera."

The blonde Spartan was already gone by the time Damien looked up. Damien's eyes narrowed. The message dispatch crumpled in his fist.

"Likewise."


	15. Chapter XI: A Successful Failure

_"Irrelevant. The alpha-immersion hardware simply isn't good enough. Laconia needs proper hard-light facilities if we're going to make these Spartans combat capable."_

_"True hardlight simulation isn't ready. Not without the requisite Tier One tech. Need I remind you, gentlemen, that only one asset has that capability, and we both know the Infinity isn't ready for public knowle-"_

_"Enough, gentlemen. Please. Director Carter, what happened in there today?"_

_"I believe the test scores speak for themselves."_

_"Yes, and it makes for impressive reading. But there have been… accusations. Of misconduct. Tampering. One of Chimera is known for his technical ability. His skills with a computer-"_

_"Are well documented, but in this instance, your suspicions are unfounded, Ma'am. There was no tampering."_

_"Then what did we just see?"_

_"I believe we just saw Chimera beginning to realise their true potential, Madame-President... and that it was everything we could have ever hoped for."_

- / excerpt from intercepted encoded Subspace Transmission, recorded February 2557 [EYES ONLY] /

* * *

"Chimera Five," Damien's voice crackled in Luke's ear, "Sit-rep, now!"

The Warthog's suspension jolted as it crunched down into the stream, blasting a spray of water up over the windshield. The rear-mounted assault cannon thundered in Luke's ears, drowning out the mewling squeal of the tyres as they fought for purchase in the churning muck of the embankment. Behind them, they could hear the enemy engines, growling ever closer.

"Keep driving!" Rashid shouted, sighting his DMR and opening up on the pursuing vehicles as they appeared over the horizon, their own weapons spitting in return. Screaming tracer fire ripped back and forth, like fiery comets.

"Trying!" Luke replied, working the gearshift back and forth.

"Do or die, Five!"

Luke didn't need to be told twice. He thumped the stick into first. The whole vehicle shuddered as it revved on the spot. The wheels spat up a torrent of shredded muck behind the 'hog. Still the vehicle held, mired in the sucking muck. Perched on the rear weapon mount, Viktorya crouched down as bullets began to whicker against the hull, spanking off the metal and whistling past overhead. Jaw set, she raked hard rounds across the bonnet of one of the oncoming pursuers.

"Do I want to know how many are behind us?!" Luke asked, flinching back as a bullet burst the windshield inward.

"Too many!" Rashid cried. Viktorya's snarling curses, a stream of venomous Russian, appeared to agree.

"Luke!" Rashid was changing mags once more. Incoming fire whipped up across the water, skipping toward them like deadly stones. "Now!"

Luke buried his armoured boot on the accelerator. With a sudden lurch the vehicle was free, tearing free and bouncing forward in a drunken sprint. One of the pursuing 'hogs ploughed into the river after them, sticking fast. Its engine shrilled in impotent fury. The other two shadowed Chimera along the riverbank, their mounted cannons blazing as they raced for a narrow shoal further downstream. Bullets whipped toward them, the sound snatch-stolen by the rushing wind.

They sped away, leaving their pursuers behind.

"Five, where's my sit-rep?!" Damien voice was shouting down the line by this point.

"One, this is Four." Rashid answered for Luke, "We are enroute to evac zone; encountering resistance."

An understatement. Behind them, high up in the sky and backlit by the morning sun, a Banshee had appeared, a barely discernible arrowhead.

"Copy. Make it quick, Rash: the bird _will_ leave without you."

"Solid copy, One. ETA Two minutes to extract, Four out."

Two minutes didn't leave a lot of time. The exfil point was one click south of their position; a yawning clearing at the foot of the valley. As rear-guard, their role had been to check oncoming resistance after extraction of the target; a high value Tier One software asset. Platinum had effected the initial extraction, with Chimera running operational security.

Operational security that was deteriorating with each passing second.

Luke never even saw the Banshee coming. One moment he was hurtling down the hillside, the tyres churning up the wet grass, the next he was on his back, staring up at the sky. Then he heard the shriek of the aircraft overhead. The sonic boom caught up with him afterward. The ringing in his ears told him he'd been caught in an explosion. The scorch marks on his armour told him he should be dead. The molten-hot burning in his chest made him wish he were.

Combat instinct took over. Luke rolled to his feet, unshipping his assault rifle.

The Warthog was a smoking ruin. The wheel axle bent inward, and two of the tyres were missing altogether. The engine core was exposed. It pulsed an alarming red as a disquieting ticking sound warned Luke away from the crash. Miraculously, both Viktorya and Rashid had been thrown clear of the wreckage as well. Rashid was limping, the simulation systems calculating broken bones and limiting his armour's movement accordingly. He clawed his way away from the twisted metal with determined fistfuls of grass. Viktorya was already taking cover, preparing for the enemy that would surely catch them.

There was no sign of the Banshee. It was circled away, hunting the other stray members of the attacking team.

Luke checked his range finder. The exfiltration point was still over seven hundred metres out. He could here the purring-whine of the enemy fusion engine grow louder. Even with their augmented limbs and suit-assisted preternatural speed, they couldn't outrun a speeding Warthog. In a moment, hostiles would appear over the hillside en masse. Luke opened a com channel.

"Uh, Sir, this is Five… we're going to have a bit of a problem here…"

Damien turned to look at Chidi. Chidi turned to look at Damien. Behind them, crouched low on the landing ramp of the idling Pelican, Fireteam Platinum looked on impatiently. The mission clock was ticking.

"Solid copy, Four."

Damien started for one of the Warthogs abandoned at the edge of the LZ. Chidinma followed his lead, breaking open the emergency weapon cache affixed to the Pelican's fuselage. Quickly and with single minded determination, she began to unpack an arsenal of anti-material weaponry. Hard-packed laser convergence weaponry, magnetic accelerated cannons, full-throated SPNK3R deployment tubes; by the time she staggered back to Damien's Warthog, she was carrying enough ordnance to level a mountain.

_Perhaps two mountains_, she thought to herself ambitiously.

"Where the hell are you doing, Chimera?" Chase Keller's voice buzzed in disbelief, "We have to go, now!"

Damien growled the engine to life, not pausing to look back at the Pelican. He touched a hand to the side of his helmet.

"Chimera, this is Chimera One. Reinforcements are en-route."

Even as they took off up the hill, they could still here Platinum One's voice swearing at them over the com.

"Chimera get back here! Chimera!"

* * *

Viktorya prepped quickly. She had propped Rashid up on a boulder far enough away from the upturned Warthog that the beeping fusion core would not prove to be an immediate risk, then turned her attention to stripping any usable materials from the wreck. Smoke washed up from the flaming wreckage, causing the air around them to blur and twist from the heat.

A DMR, three grenades, and four additional magazines. Fine for an infantry skirmish, but sorely lacking when it came to stopping a Warthog dead in its tracks. Strapped to the small of her back was a remote detonator, a field engineer tool used for rapid breaching and emergency demolition work. That would have to do.

Luke stowed his assault rifle, instead tearing the Warthog's assault cannon free of its restraints and propping it on a rock beside Rashid. Viktorya came over a moment later, lugging over the ammunition bay. They clipped the belt feed into the ammo store, turning the rock into an impromptu gun emplacement. The sound of raring engines grew louder in their ears. It was almost time.

"You can fight?" She asked.

Rashid nodded.

"Good." she nodded once, clapping him on the shoulder. It was about as close to jovial as Viktorya ever got.

They took their positions. Luke bellied down in the muck in front of Rashid, smearing some across his visor to obscure its golden tint. He held his assault rifle pointed at the hill in front of them, toward the sound of the hunting engines. Viktorya moved forward and to the right, ducking low in a shallow ditch housing a narrow stream. Rashid stayed where he was, limited by the piercing pain the simulator was pumping through his nervous system. His armour status showed a yellow-orange status indicator. He listened to the tinkle of the nearby stream, watched the way the winds swayed the grass in great swishing waves. He cherished those last few seconds.

"Hold fire." Viktorya ordered sternly.

Then she vanished. Literally vanished. One second she was there. Then there was a rippling sound, and like a fish slipping beneath the water, she was gone; her outline the faintest blur, a whispered trace.

The first Warthog appeared, then a second. A third. It was Castle Team, judging by the bulky armour design and the fact that they had arrived first. Castle were a solid fire-team, dependable, tenacious in a fight. That they were the first on Chimera's heels came as no surprise.

"Hold." Viktorya's voice was a whisper.

The Warthogs barrelled down the hill, suspension rocking. They raced toward the exfil point. The gunner on the point vehicle swept the rotary cannon over the wreck, panning for targets of opportunity. It was gunning straight for Viktorya. Still she appeared as little more than a smudged rumour, as the sun shone clear through the imaging system embedded within the skin of her armour.

"Hold."

The lead Warthog was only fifty metres from them now. Its headlamps caught the light, dazzling and winking in the sunlight like manic leering eyes.

"Hold."

The blur shifted slightly.

There was a hollow thump, like the bang of a starter gun. It seemed comically weak in the face of the monstrous buzzing-growl of the advancing engine. Something attached itself to the hood of Castle's Warthog. Something that beeped and throbbed a deep angry red. The Warthog screeched on the brakes, slewing to one side. Then it exploded, the fusion core lighting up in a hurtling fireball. The 'hog flipped forwards, bouncing once, twice, then finally rolling to a halt in a series of crunching tumbles.

Viktorya abruptly materialised, rifle raised.

"Chimera!" she shouted, opening fire on the second oncoming Warthog.

The spit of her DMR was drowned out by the rattling chatter of Rashid's assault cannon. Without the halting suspension of the weapon frame, the recoil was impossible to control, even with augmented limbs. It kicked and danced against the supporting boulder, as Rashid threw his body weight across it in a desperate attempt to hold it on target.

Not that it mattered. The sheer weight of fire thrown up toward the oncoming vehicles was enough to cause the Warthogs to veer off course. The vehicle on the left flipped over, its front wheel disappearing into a sinkhole hidden by a dense thicket of heather. One of the passengers was thrown free. Luke was on him in a second, rising up out of the muck, his assault rifle juddering as the rounds chopped home.

The rear weapon mount of the second 'Hog swung to bear down on Luke. The weapon spun as it began to cycle up.

Damien's Warthog smashed into the side of the vehicle, sandwiching the gunner between its tyres and the crumpled weapon mount. A clambering leap carried him into the vacant seat of the hostile Warthog. He smashing the butt of his BR-85 into the driver's visor. Once. Shields sparked and popped. Twice. Armour dented and the visor cracked. A third blow burst the hapless Spartan's visor inward entirely, eliminating him from the simulation.

There was a blinding crimson flash, and the third warthog vanished in a column of fire. Chidinma climbed out of the Warthog's passenger seat, tossing the Spartan Laser over toward Viktorya, who deftly caught it.

Chimera rallied in the centre of the ruined field, bracketed on all sides by scorched wreckage. Damien jumped down from the intertwined corpses of the broken Warthogs.

"Chimera, prep for contact." Damien nodded at each of them in turn. "Get loaded, make it fast. Open dispersal, defensive spread."

The others took their positions, spreading themselves out in a wide arc.

Damien hunkered down beside Rashid. The fallen Spartan was on his back, the discarded assault cannon laying over to one side.

"You alright, Four?"

"Having a great time, One." Rashid wheezed.

"Get Well Soon present for you." Damien took a second M-6 Nonlinear Rifle from Viktorya, then handed it down to Rashid.

"A Grindell? Nice."

"Might be a bit easier to aim than that cannon. Make it count, Rash."

Damien went to stand up. Rashid forestalled him with a raised hand.

"You realise our performance rating is going to take a hit on this, Sir."

"Not the only thing about to take a hit." Luke added glumly, watching the horizon darken with hostile contacts.

"Yeah, well call me an optimist." Damien replied. "Alright Chimera, no time for speeches, we're on in five. Conserve ammunition and prioritise targets of opportunity. With me?"

Three green acknowledgement lights lit up. The motion sensor showed a wall of red converging upon their position. Damien ignored it, shrugging a launcher up onto his shoulder. Damien frowned. Chimera Five's acknowledgement light still hadn't lit up.

It was then that Luke spoke up again.

"Sir, not to point out the drastic statistical likelihood of our imminent destruction, or anything, but can I just point out that we're hilariously outgunned?"

Damien grinned at that. He hefted the launcher on his shoulder, adjusting his grip.

"Always outnumbered, _never_ outgunned, Five."

The fifth and final HUD light lit up, Damien's own.

_Status green._

* * *

What followed was an action steeped in heroic inevitability. Chimera, caught out in an open field with scant coverage bar the mangled ruins of the twisted Warthogs and smouldering fires, fought tooth and nail as a second wave of enemies encroached upon their position. Aircover, Banshees high and screaming, swept down upon them, raking the ground with scorching bolts of stabbing plasma. Warthogs powered through the swirling smoke, weapons clattering with murderous intent.

Chimera met them head on, weapons primed.

Their defeat was not a matter open to debate. The enemy were too numerous, too well equipped. Equally, those descending upon them were Spartans, who would not be outdone by bravado alone.

What proved surprising was the duration and tenacity of Chimera's defence. It was a triumph of audacity, of balls out courage and rage against five full teams of Spartan attackers.

And what courage! Concerted DMR fire tore Banshees from the sky. Warthogs were driven away by determined small arms fire or killed outright by lancing stabs of melt-hot beam-fire. Those aircraft that strayed too close were pelted with salvos of rockets, which smashed them to the ground in great arcs of fiery pebbles. Advancing infantry shied back, cowed by the wall of destruction. The field had been green and vivid once. Fully twelve minutes after the battle opened in earnest, it became an elephant graveyard of twisted metal and bubbling fire.

But bereft of cover and hopelessly out-matched, the sustained defensive effort began to run its inevitable course. Ammunition clicked dry, rocket tubes spun empty. Laser-weapons folded shut, their barrels white hot and exhaust grills venting freely as they fell silent, inert. Chimera fell back on their standard fire-arms; loading and reloading as they plinked shots up at the advancing tide. The ground became carpeted in empty bullet casings.

It was actually Damien who was the first to be 'killed' outright. A Banshee skilfully flitted down beneath a duo of twisting rockets, dumping its fuel rod payload at almost point blank range. Chimera One simply vanished in a pillar of heat. The pilot spun up and away, chuckling to himself. He could only blink in surprise once he saw that Chidinma attached to his wing, priming a plasma grenade and angling for the cockpit. The blast took them both, spitting shrapnel and body parts down across the battlefield.

All but forgotten on his propped up rock, Rashid was the last fall. The infantry were picking their way through the smoke, determined to stamp out the last of Chimera's dogged resistance. They found him clutching his Grindell across his chest. The weapon was unfolded and prepped to fire, though it was pointed at his feet - no threat to the Spartans encircling him They kicked a spent assault rifle away from Rashid's side, crowding in close. Still he ignored them, clinging the anti-material projector like a beloved teddy bear.

"Mission's over, Chimera." a green-armoured Spartan from Fireteam Jackal grunted, as he raised the barrel of a BR-85 "Time to die."

"Too right." Rashid agreed.

Rashid twisted his fingers inside the exposed core of the Grindell, overloading the reactor and immolating them all.

* * *

The simulator restraints popped open. Clasps released with a hiss of steam. Simulated sensor packages withdrew from tiny circuit plugs in the neck of his armour, causing Damien to gasp as he slid free of the armature. A surging feeling rushed up the back of his mind; a bubble of cold, clear water as his body naturally reacted to the immersion withdrawal.

His armoured boots clanged on the gantry as he lurched over to a support rail, clinging to it for dear life. The shock of stepping out of a suit-simulated bubble into hard gravity was always jarring. Doubly so when your brain thinks it's been recently incinerated.

Chase was waiting for him, arms folded across his chest.

"What the hell are you playing at, Chimera?" he spat, shoving the younger Spartan, "You do not go off mission."

Damien swatted the next shoving set of hands aside, trying to shake off the dizziness.

"I don't leave my men behind, Platinum. Not for your precious mission score, and especially not for you." Damien's visor was almost touching Chase's. The white armoured Spartan cocked his head to one side.

"You want to dance, Chimera, is that it?"

"Get out of my face before I make you eat your goddamn helmet."

Eric appeared on the gantry behind them, fully armoured and silently watchful. Both candidates fell in, snapping a salute. Eric turned to look at Chase, with that killer's stare. Chase swallowed nervously.

"An excellent performance as always, Platinum." Eric said quietly, "Let's not see it ruined by discipline infractions, shall we? Dismissed."

"Sir." Chase saluted and made himself scarce.

Damien went to salute and vanish too.

"A word, Chimera One."

The ice flooding Damien's veins welded him to the spot.

"A stubborn resistance, all told. Dogged, determined."

Eric's head came back around to look roundly at Damien.

"And ultimately futile. You and your entire team were killed. The war is over. We do not build expendable Spartans. _Not_ _anymore_. Do you understand?"

Damien took a moment before answering.

"I will not leave my team behind, Sir."

"An admirable sentiment. One that may not stand up in a live-fire combat scenario. In a choice between your mission and your team, the mission must take priority."

"I understand, Sir."

"Do you?"

Damien nodded.

"Good. Dismissed, Spartan."

After Damien was gone, Kaizen's hologram shivered into view behind him. Eric half turned to face her. He was too busy looking up at the combat scores displayed on the Team Roster.

"The mission or your team, 239?" she asked. "Would you really choose the mission?"

"Director Carter's orders. I was to relay them directly."

"And you agree with his assessment?"

"Once." Eric replied. "Now I'm not so sure."

Eric was still studying the board. He was absently rubbing his hand over the small white scimitar inscribed on the collar of his chest plate. The rest of his armour was dented and scuffed, marked with a thousand tiny scratches from a hundred different battles. But the sword was repainted, flawlessly, by hand. Old strokes had been re-coated by new ones, each painted with delicate reverence. Beneath the curving blade, three small skulls, etched in black.

"What is it, 239?"

"Chimera."

"They remind you of them, don't they?"

Eric didn't reply. He continued to rub at the scimitar stencilled on his chest, deep in thought.

To a certain degree, Chase had been right. Dead to a man, Chimera's mission score was in tatters. But the combat scores; kill/death ratios, targets destroyed, vehicles eliminated. Three Spartans had died for every member of Chimera slain. It was unprecedented.

Chimera had moved up into second place in the standings, edging past Fireteam Trident by a clear forty points.

Only Platinum, with their flawless record, stood above them.

"Now comes the hard part, Kai." Eric said eventually.

"Which is?"

"How do we teach Chimera to do that for real… and not get them killed in the process?"


	16. Chapter XII: A Unique Requisition

_"A.I. Combat Integration. It's a relatively uncharted field. Smart A.I.'s embedded within a Spartan's armour frame and capable of interfacing with adjoining units via the system's short range carrier wave. I've been monitoring the units where Kaizen has integrated on active simulations - there's a marked increase in tactical response times._

_We've reached the pinnacle of what we can do with armour systems. But thinking quicker, fighting smarter?_

_That's the next step."_

- excerpt from the private notes of Dr. R. Pearson, assigned psychoanalyst with SPARTAN Operations on Laconia (retrieved 2561).

* * *

The purpose of the Laconia Academy was not simply confined to the training of Spartans.

As a military facility, it was a waypoint for a thousands of specialists from dozens of service lines. While the most recent Spartan intake was the first of its kind, the Academy had been founded in 2555, and for two years had processed the cream of the UNSC's military. Fighter pilots, Mantis operators, artillery units; armoured infantry and traditional special forces - for all its relative seclusion, there was no shortage of talent at Laconia.

The reason for this was twofold. For one, rotational cross-training in a variety of combat specialisations allowed for more dynamic and creative field commanders. An artillery officer could learn firsthand how to interact with deep-cover pathfinders, and vice versa. For another, Laconia granted multiple opportunities for inter-unit combat training and joint strike exercises. While such was the practice across the wider UNSC military, nowhere was the concept more concentrated than it was on Laconia.

A large reason for this was the direct influence of Director Idris Carter, who oversaw the efficient administration of the entire installation. Little was known about the Director. It was generally assumed by those that met him that he was former ODST, though whether or not this was the case had yet to confirmed or denied. The subject would be raised and then just as quickly dropped, often accompanied by a knowing look or a disapproving scowl. There were some carpets you didn't look under, some questions you shouldn't ask.

Carter had done time on the ground firsthand though, and it showed. He knew how armoured columns operated, and took time to speak with the field commanders rotating through. The Director would recommend areas in the locality best suited to rough terrain training, pointing out where the officers could really put the drive-crews through their paces. He spoke with the pilots, politely complimenting them on their skills, and asking them to take the time to introduce themselves to the ground pounders they would most likely interact with in future operations. They seldom refused him, out of genuine respect more so than simple courtesy. The result was Laconia as it stood in 2557: a hub of cutting edge military professionalism and cross-service line cooperation. A social network for special forces of all kinds.

The embodiment of this spirit of cooperation was The Gauntlet.

It was the single largest training exercise carried out on Laconia, held on an annual basis. Only this time, it would be different. This year would be the first time the exercise would incorporate augmented infantry.

The Gauntlet was the 26th century's logical evolution of SERE training practiced by the United States and United Kingdom of the 21st century. SERE, or Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape, had originally focused on instilling in-field independence in military personnel at a high risk of capture and imprisonment. Service personnel - from military fliers to front-line operators - would be taught escape and evasion maneuvers and, once inevitably captured, the candidates would be subjected to simulated interrogation in order to test their personal boundaries, and develop a resistance to the considerable duress of wartime captivity.

While the concept had fallen somewhat by the wayside over the past thirty years of war (the Covenant, after all, seldom took prisoners), its revival had been deemed prudent, given the marked increase in Insurrectionist activity in the post-war era. The end result was Survival, Infiltration, Recon, Evasion and Navigation - SIREN - a variation of the principles of SERE tailored to frontline special forces designed for infiltration ops behind enemy lines.

SIREN was evasion training for the augmented. A program for candidates of an ab-human level of endurance. Given the innate stealth and sheer rapidity of a committed Spartan infiltration team, the program was condensed into a single week. Accordingly, the difficulty of the simulation relative to competing training exercises for more conventional special forces was markedly higher. When pressed with the question of why the SIREN program contained no interrogation elements in a traditional sense, Spartan 239 simply replied "Spartans don't break."

Entire armoured battalions would be deployed throughout the Pen Y Fan, a vast range of snow-capped mountains named by a particularly nostalgic Welshman who had served on the Laconia's original settlement team.

The objective was simple: slip through the Pen Y Fan, reach the target marker, and activate the victory beacon; a small lighthouse lost high in the wafting clouds.

Three Spartan teams would be enrolled in the program as candidates. As a matter of balance, and in order to give the defending forces a competing tactical edge, the other four outstanding teams would serve as counter-insurgency teams, ferried about by UH-144 Falcon transports. These teams would be outfitted with significantly heavier firepower than the infiltration teams. For the infiltrating teams, being discovered would not be a viable option.

Adding to the difficulty was the risk posed by the use of any specialised navigation software within the Spartan's armour systems. The Pelicans combing the skies above would surely be attuned to sensors of this kind, and any reliance upon same would be considered ill-advised at the very least. Instead, old fashioned paper charts were to be drawn up, memorised and subsequently destroyed. From there, the Spartans would navigate based on memory alone. The only concession to modern technology was the permitted use of the Spartan's armour. This was to build their confidence in using the suits "in-country": of all the exercises to date, this was the first to be carried out beyond the steel walls of the simulation chamber.

Only a single piece of equipment could be requisitioned from Laconia's quartermaster.

The OPFOR were played by a variety of seasoned veterans. The 22nd Royal Commando would be embedded throughout the open country, secreted in hidden bunkers and skilfully concealed in camouflaged laying up points. The bulk of the patrolling infantry were UNSC Marines, drawn from the "Fighting" Fortieth Marine Battalion and the Welsh Guards, both of whom were reinforced by the 605th Mechanised Infantry - a decorated Army combat unit. Mantis support would be provided by another Army group; the venerated 34/1st Armoured Reconnaissance Division.

Enjoying their position in the top three places in the Spartan's Combat Rankings, Fireteams Platinum, Trident and Chimera would be given the dubious pleasure of trying to sneak past this combined task force undetected.

The candidates were given a mere twenty-four hour grace period to make their preparations.

Which is precisely why Rebecca found herself surprised when Chimera invited her to attend personally.

* * *

"It's the first place they'll watch." Chidinma shook her head.

Luke slumped back in his chair, defeated. His suggestion of a using a backward goat trail, while laudable, was not proving to be a favourite with the other members of Chimera. Yet another strategy had been discarded.

Chimera were gathered around a private map room, which was dominated by a central island display. Rebecca sat with them, a warm mug of hot chocolate in cupped in her hands, feeling decidedly diminutive altogether. Splayed across the projector's surface were detailed topographical charts of the Pen Y Fan. Summit heights, dirt trails and plunging valleys. Unlike its Earthen equivalent, the Laconia Pen Y Fan were significantly taller in terms of altitude. Wide sweeping hills steadily gave way to the craggy summits, which dominated the plains to the north of the Academy.

The reinforced chairs squeaked painfully under the strain of Chimera's hulking armoured suits. Their helmets lay resting on the border of the map table. No two were alike.

Damien hunched over the end of the table, his gauntlet-ed fingers knitted together and his brow furrowed in thought.

"So, no points to Five for his suggestion. Any alternatives, people?"

Viktorya raised her hand. Her vivid green eyes were bolted firmly onto the holographic display showing a plateau.

"Here." she said, her fingers sweeping along the top of the plateau. The climb to the top was a sheer climb. Handholds would be icy crags of jagged rock. Treacherous, borderline suicidal.

"Impossible, you'll kill yourselves by even trying to get up there." Rebecca shook here head.

"Wind sheer is a factor, but we could do it." Luke mused, "With the right equipment, of course."

"I don't see them giving us much in the way of equipment, Five; not on this op." Damien frowned, "The idea behind the exercise is to live off the land, work our way through patrol lines and infiltrate the objective. Requisition says we're only allowed to bring a single piece of equipment."

Damien looked up at the others.

"Speaking of which, we still need to come to an agreement on that. And no, Vee, we're not bringing a rocket launcher. Or a Pelican drop-ship. I'm looking at you, Chidi."

Both of the female Spartans looked downcast.

"The A.I." Luke suggested suddenly.

"Kaizen." Rashid corrected.

"Yeah, that's the one." Luke tried to snap his fingers, an action appreciably more difficult in a Gen 2 armour skin. "It's technically combat certified, right?"

_"She."_ Rashid corrected again, louder.

"Why not listen in on their communications?" Luke was on a roll now, "Intelligence could be our edge here - and it could help us do it without being detected."

_"She."_ Chimera corrected him as one.

The A.I. materialised in the middle of the map projector.

"I felt my ears burning." Kaizen remarked, fixing Luke with a cold glare, "Oh wait, _It_ doesn't _have_ ears."

Luke coughed and studied the floor, mumbling an apology. A silence fell over the group.

Rashid drummed his fingers on the edge of the table, deep in thought.

"Kaizen, my friend's enthusiasm aside, his proposal has merit. Would we be able to… ask a favour of you?"

Kaizen's icy stare now had the Indian Spartan in its sights.

"You've never asked to work with me before. Why now?"

"Call it a hunch. The Spartan sat forward, addressing his peers.

"We won't win this scenario using brute force. Combat scores might recognition to a degree, but if we learned anything last week, it's a Completed Mission score that's going to put us within striking distance of ending Platinum's hot streak."

Kaizen pursed her lips thoughtfully. The data-stream flowing upwards across her skin pulsed faster. Rebecca could almost have sworn the A.I. was blushing.

"It's about time you started thinking with your brains rather than your biceps, Chimera." the frost A.I. conceded, her lips pursed in amusement, "Count me in."

"It's settled then: the A.I. comes with us." Damien closed the meeting. "Only one thing."

They all turned to look at him.

"Rashid?" Damien asked pleasantly.

"Sir?"

"You're the tech genius here, right? He who makes the ChatterNet giggle, and mere datapads swoon at the slightest touch?"

"You do me too much credit, Sir." the Spartan bowed graciously. "But I will accept the compliment, Damien, if it's being offered."

"Good. Then the A.I's your responsibility and yours alone, so. Don't mess up, or we're _all_ going to have to endure Chase's smirk for that extra bit longer."

Chimera laughed as they filed for the exit, their spirits high. Rebecca caught up with Damien as he was powering down the holo-chart.

"Damien, why did you invite me here?" she asked, "I'm not much of a soldier."

The blue-eyed Spartan blinked in surprise, as though he'd been asked whether he preferred unicorns or ostriches.

"Why because you're our shrink, Doctor Pearson." the Spartan reminded her with a wolfish grin, "We keep you around just to remind us how crazy we are."

With that he ruffled her hair and walked out of the room, his armoured footfalls clanking in his wake.

* * *

Chimera made ready.

The lens of Rashid Datar's GUNGIR Armour System whirred as it adjusted slightly.

"All aboard, Kaizen?"

"Systems functional, Spartan 492. I see you've made further modifications to your armour's internal software network." A tone of disapproval coloured her voice, "These are not sanctioned alterations."

"Just trying to stay ahead of the curve, my dear." Rashid replied breezily.

"Running a visual check. Give me a view of the hangar."

Rashid turned his helmet toward the open gulf of the loading bay. There were a half dozen other Spartans prepping for infield deployment. You could spot the different fire teams by the unique colouration of their armour sets: the gun metal grey armour of Fireteam Castle, the verdant green of Trident. On the far end of the walkway, he made out Chimera's deep blue colouration, the ridges of their armour picked out by white stripes. Damien and Viktorya, liaising over some minor tactical detail. As point operator, Viktorya would have a direct say in how and when the fire team moved once they entered The Gauntlet.

Kaizen immediately began interfacing with the helmet's targeting suite as Rashid's viewfinder lens panned over them.

"Calibrating."

Abruptly, a dozen brilliant coloured red boxes blazed up in massive size, almost blinding Rashid with their intensity. Biometric scans, tactical readouts, ammunition counts; it was a tidal wave of information where a trickle would have sufficed. The sudden flash of data was dazzling.

"Whoah!" Rashid explained, swaying on his feet.

"My apologies, Spartan! Your configuration is not what we would be considered standard pattern-"

"It's alright, Kaizen, just turn it off for a moment."

The data panes vanished. Rashid blinked, clearing his vision.

"These Spartan ID's…" Rashid began, a question forming in his mind.

"Yes, Spartan?"

Rashid smiled deviously.

"How do they work?"


	17. Chapter XIII: The Gauntlet

_"Com-check, Outpost Two-Fourteen to Control, are you receiving?"_

_"Control here, go ahead Two-Fourteen."_

_"No signs of target, repeat, no signs of target."_

_"Ten-four, Two-Fourteen, log is noted and updated. Keep your eyes peeled, Control out."_

Com relay recorded from SIREN training exercise, April 2557 (retrieved 2561)

* * *

The patrol trooper switched off his helmet-mic and turned away from the cliff's edge. He took a moment to hawk some phlegm out over the sheer drop, before ducking back into the meager shelter offered by the sentry post's heaped sandbags.

Had he been paying attention, he would have noticed the drop of spittle hadn't been stolen away by the howling wind, nor had it been lost to the rising mists below. Viktorya reached up and wiped the smear from her visor, before cautiously resuming her climb, gingerly bypassing the gun post inset into the cliff face. Beneath her, clinging to the sheer rock wall by little more than their fingernails and toe-caps, the other members of Chimera pulled themselves upward, constantly buffeted by the slapping gale.

They carried no weapons. SIREN was strictly an infiltration exercise. Discovery would mean certain capture, and - with it - an instant fail.

Their choosing the plateau as a point of ascension had been a calculated risk, but one that had been borne out of sheer necessity. Seven hours in, The Gauntlet had lived up to its name. They had bellied down in scratching reeds as mechanised assault walkers stalked past, the ground quaking with each stomping footfall. They had barely dared to breathe as the boots of hostile infantry squished down in the sucking mire around them. The terrain was open, and only the ragged bog-like marsh had provided them with the cover needed to pick their way through the layered patrols sweeping the open countryside.

Kaizen had saved them countless times. Even with all of Viktorya's sharp-eyed instincts and Damien's astute tactical judgement, the patrols were too numerous, their training too sharp. More than once, the A.I. had told them to hold still when the coast was seemingly clear, only for a Falcon assault copter to thrum overhead, the chop-wash of its rotors beating steady, pulsing waves through the untamed grass.

Armoured columns trundled past on the simple dirt roads, announced by the hissing-scrape of tyres on wet asphalt. Checkpoints lay at every junction, where sentries, bored from a hours of watching a quiet landscape, joked and smoked as they stamped their feet against the damp cold. It had rained solidly for three days prior, and their breath misted in front of their faces. The weather on Laconia was temperamental the best of times. Sealed within their armoured skins, Chimera watched them from the shadowy undergrowth and picked their moments. They slipped by unnoticed, their creeping silence entirely at odds with their muscular plating.

Six hours later, Viktorya's fingers found the top of the cliff. She hauled herself up, rolling onto the damp granite and helping the others scramble up after her. The plateau was a long stretch of hard stone, thatched with patches of dew-damp grass. The stony spine spanned a full kilometre along the Pen Y Fan's central ridge line. No sooner was Luke pulled up onto the plateau when the Spartans broke into a full sprint, the soles of their armoured boots slapping against the hard rock. Air patrols were everywhere, and the risk of detection remained a constant, unwelcome companion.

On Kaizen's advice Chimera had maintained radio silence for all but the most urgent of communications. The OPFOR would be scanning for the type of short-wave carrier bleed emitted by the Gen2 systems. Chimera's systems were masked with the latest in stealth shielding, but the defending patrols were practiced professionals. While the strong winds at the height of the plateau were enough to play havoc with any infantry based detection software, any orbital surveillance would be quick to pick out unauthorised transmissions. For now, squad communication was strictly limited to hand signals.

The terrain began to descend into a craggy pathway leading down along the spine of a larger mountain, falling away into the pooling mist. Large boulders and jutting plinths of rock rose up along the ridgeline, like the spines of some monstrous dinosaur, or the grasping fingers of some eerie mist-shrouded giant.

Damien raised a gauntleted fist. Chimera crouched low amidst the comparative shelter of the rockery, instantly coming to a full stop. The stone plinths made for a welcome wind-breaker.

The Spartan checked the tac-readout hard-mounted onto the cuff of his suit. The approach from here to the signal tower was as treacherous as their previous ascent. Only the threat posed by the terrain had been replaced by a military one.

Heavy mechanised patrols circled the target area: Mantis assault walkers, paired in twos. A Scorpion Main Battle Tank sat in the middle of one of the main roads leading to the height of the next summit. It was little more than a blurry smudge in the far distance, but Viktorya pointed it out; her sharp eyes picking out its distinctive silhouette amidst the gloom.

The mountains themselves accommodated a warren of subterranean rat-holes; designed to ferry infantry from one part of the range to the other. The Spartans had little doubt that the majority of the OPFOR's special forces were concentrated here. Not to mention the guaranteed presence of at least one hostile Spartan deployment.

Damien risked the com as he studied the three peaks looming out of the blanketing mist. It was six kilometres to the main objective. They had already traveled forty klicks south of the academy. _Just another eighty to go_, he thought.

"Kaizen, need a threat assessment."

"Calculating."

The tac readout spread out to show the approach from a crow's eye perspective. The map became an angry mess of red blobs, interspersed with dozens of tiny crosses. On his visual display, a veritable blizzard of hostile target indicators lit themselves across the humped spine of the mountain range. Damien's eyes narrowed as he took in the detail. He'd been wrong. Those weren't infantry targets at all.

"P-33 Anti-personnel mines, scattered all across the valley." Luke's voice echoed his own thoughts, "They've seeded the entire goddamn slope."

The overlapping patrols had been bad enough. The mines would slow their progress to a crawl.

"Alternatives?" Damien asked the group.

"Underground, through the tunnels." Viktorya said. She had zoomed in on a cave mouth yawning out some five hundred metres ahead. "Avoid the air-cover, bypass mines entirely."

"Negative, Chimera Three." Kaizen answered, switching the display to show a trembling electrostatic radio signal, "negative void space on my scanning software shows a disguised carrier signal not dissimilar to Chimera's own."

"Spartan transmissions?" Damien queried, turning about to half-face Rashid.

"Rather a conspicuous lack of Spartan transmissions." Rashid clarified, tapping the readout "You can see it in the gap that's not there. They're running dark, waiting for us."

"Fireteam Jackal." Chidinma ventured. A keen tactician herself, Chidinma made a study of the tactics employed by the rival fire teams. "They called our bluff; figured we'd try and take the sheer slope to avoid the mountain patrols. It's exactly the kind of stunt they pulled on Trident in the Mars Scenario."

"And we know how that ended." Damien agreed grimly, "That rules out the caves. We can't stay here, but one thing's for certain."

"And that is?" Chidi asked.

Damien tapped the data pad. A waypoint appeared, centered on their objective.

"Getting in there is going to be an absolute pain in the hole."

"Hole?" Viktorya enquired, still studying the approach to the cave.

"A saying from Hibernia. Nevermind, Vee."

Abruptly a warning bleat cut through the com. They shrank into the meager cover offered by the surrounding rockery. A Falcon buzzed past, its twin turbines whooping. Not for the first time today, Kaizen's early warning system had saved their Titanium-A hides.

Damien flashed a hand signal. _Stay down!_

Four steady green acknowledgement lights answered him.

The Falcon buzzed overhead. Its rotor blades whipped the air. A door gunner panned its machine gun over the rock formation. Suddenly there was snap as a search light sprang to life, washing through the rainy mist and picking out the contours of the craggy rock. The Spartans tensed. Chidinma looked over at Damien. Instinctively, he knew what she was thinking. They were pinned on a hillside. _Trapped like rats_. Going tactical wasn't an option. After all, he had no weapon.

Damien held his clenched fist in the air. _Hold fast._

Three green acknowledgement lights answered him. Damien did a double take. Three lights, not four.

One had dimmed to a russet orange. Damien spun about.

Rashid had stepped out into the open.

* * *

Being a door gunner on the Falcon _Oedipus Sex_ was a rather unsubtle experience altogether.

The beating whoop of the rotors was deafening. The red warning light within the transport's troop hold cast everything in an angry crimson light. As the main crew chief, Specialist Hopkins had to rely on his helmet com simply to hear, and his very best squint to see through the targeting monocle over his left eye.

"Uh, Control, are you seeing this?" Specialist Hoskins roared into his helmet mic. He racked the charge handle on the mounted .50 caliber machine cannon. It made a suitably meaty _clack_ sound.

"Reading you five by five, Super Six Three. Do you have a visual?"

"Confirmed, Sir. Armoured target, height profile matching that of a tier one operator, Spartan class."

"What's he doing?"

"He's, uh…"

Hopkins looked up from the .50 cal's gun sight. He made an adjustment to his targeting lens, giving it a scolding tap as though it were deceiving him.

"Super Six Three, you still there...?"

"He's... well. He's waving at us, Sir."

There was a moments pause. All Hoskins could hear was the steady keening whine of the engine core, the whooping judder of the twinned chop-blades. The piercing spot-beam caught the rain, picking it out like wispy strands of sleet in a snowstorm. Controls voice crackled back into life. The line operator's voice was incredulous.

"Say again, Super Six Three, did you say he was waving at you?"

Up in the cockpit, the pilot frowned at his instruments. Lieutenant Marley joined the com-line.

"Sir, we're receiving an incoming transmission, ground sourced."

"From who, airman?"

"The Spartan, Sir." the pilot's frown deepened, amazed, "... he's hailing us."

* * *

"Rashid!" Chidinma's voice was an outraged hiss. "What are you _doing_?!"

Rash didn't reply. He was too busy stabbing a series of manic commands into the interface pad hard-wired into the datapad crudely sutured into the skin of his suit's forearm; another one of his unorthodox modifications. He gave another wave for a good measure.

It was then that Chimera Four disappeared. He didn't activate an optical stealth field, or mask himself through any cruder means of subterfuge. Physically speaking, he was still very much there: standing out in the open, rendered alone and vulnerable under the piercing spot-lamps of the hovering Falcon. _Waving like an idiot,_ Damien thought, incensed. But on the visual display relayed by Chimera One's helmet, his Spartan Tag blurred, fizzed, then vanished altogether. Chimera Four simply ceased to be.

Replacing it was a new Spartan ID. Jackal One, Spartan Gabriel Headey; a notoriously bellicose Spartan by anyone's standards. Damien opened his channel to the wide band, intercepting Rashid's transmission mid-cast.

"- is Jackal One, requesting immediate pickup. Targets sighted moving along the northern ridge line. Repeat, targets sighted moving along the ridgeline. We've gotta move now, airman!"

"Jackal One we're getting some interference on your IFF responder, can you-"

Damien blinked. That wasn't Rashid speaking at all. For one it was far too gruff. The voice Rashid was speaking with was a pitch-perfect imitation of Jackal One, his modulated seamlessly through the filters of his broadcast emitter. Kaizen was data-squirting source code from the nearby hostile Spartan team, piggy-backing the appropriate IFF codes on the enemy's own inert communications network. Transmission logs recorded during previous ops was being pumped into the voice modulation software of Chimera Four's helmet mic. The result was uncanny imitation.

'Jackal One' was beginning to lose patience now. Damien got the feeling that Rashid was enjoying himself immensely.

"Do I need to quote regulations to you son? Spartan Field Regulation 220-2423-AE-14; subsection C-3, paragraph four; 'Any Spartan field request immediately supersedes that of the COC in a designated combat area'. Now pick us up before I have you scrubbing latrines with your tongue until all you can taste is urinal cake!"

There was a pause; an awkward, pregnant, monstrously tense pause. For a moment Damien was convinced the ruse wasn't going to work. That a dozen more Falcons would emerge from the misty gloom, and fast-rope in a small army of hostile shock troops, ending Chimera's SIREN ambitions right there and then. Visions of his fledgling career as a Spartan Fireteam Leader going up in flames swam up before his eyes.

Instead the com line crackled alive once more.

"Uh, Ten-four, Jackal One, Super Six Three is on station and will assist."

The Falcon spun about as it moved closer. Drooping, spooling coils of rope fell down toward them.

Rashid turned around to where the rest of Chimera lay skulking in the rockery. Even silhouetted by the blinding back-light of the search lamps, Damien could hear the grin in the Rashid's false voice. For once, the most cautious of them had taken the biggest risk.

"Well c'mon, Jackal." Rashid smiled, "What are you waiting for?"

* * *

"Strictly speaking, that was not how the SIREN Exercise is meant to go down."

It was twenty fours later. Chimera had been summoned to Director Carter's office. The Director himself barely came up to chest height. Even so, Chimera stared straight ahead, petrified. Over the past six months, they had broken bones, spilled blood and crawled through mud. They had visited grievous damage upon their enemies, and endured the hardest toils. Even after all of that, and more, Carter's displeasure terrified them.

Chimera were still dressed in their armour; mud-splattered and entirely at odds with the utilitarian elegance of the master study. Kaizen had been summoned as well, and stood to one side, emitted by a projector plinth. She too was being chastised.

Eric stood at the back, dressed in a formal but under-stated sleeve-suit for a change. The expression on his scar-mangled face was, as ever, unreadable.

Carter had his back to them, his arms folded at the small of his back.

He was staring out at the landing fields below.

Troop patrols were still trudging back from patrol. The men were in high spirits, glad to be out of the constant rain and cheek-pinching wind. The weather wasn't due to clear for another two days: that they had been recalled fully twenty four hours ahead of schedule was a welcome relief. Their jovial disposition was a stark contrast to the atmosphere in the room, which could at best be described as funereal.

"You understand the purpose of the exercise, Chimera One."

Damien nodded solemnly, his Recruit-Pattern helmet clicking with the gesture.

"Yes, Sir. Infiltration and evasion against overwhelming odds, Sir."

"Overwhelming odds." Carter tested the phrase on his tongue, weighing it like a fine wine. "I understand each of you have some experience in that department. You're still here, after all."

He turned to face them, a stern frown knitting his brow tight.

"Nevertheless, what happened out there was not acceptable. You undermined the rules of the exercise, hi-jacked UNSC Naval equipment and ultimately subverted a training exercise designed to test your own limitations in the face of vastly superior odds. Worse still, you violated FLEETCOM security protocols to do so."

Rashid stepped forward.

"Sir, permission to speak free-"

"Denied." Damien answered quickly before Carter could respond, "Sir I was in command. I gave the order to board the Falcon. The responsibility is mine and mine alone."

Four red acknowledgement lights had lit up on his HUD in silent protest. Damien smiled behind his opal visor despite the tension in the room, but killed it quickly. Carter was glaring at him, to a point where Damien was amazed his shield system hadn't started sparking.

"You've learned some form of responsibility. That's good. But can you follow orders? This isn't the first time you've thrown the specific purpose of an exercise to the four winds. And you, Kaizen," he rounded on the A.I., "I'm surprised at you; you know better than to subvert the training protocols of this academy."

The A.I. simply bowed her head in acknowledgment, saying nothing.

"We were playing to win, Sir." Damien gave a slight shake of his head, "I offer no excuses."

Director Carter pursed his lips for a moment. The silence draped the room. Eventually he looked up at the Eric.

"Spartan-Instructor, your thoughts?"

Eric didn't blink. He was stood behind the Spartans. All they could hear was the gravely rasp of his voice in their ears. The veteran Spartan cleared his throat before speaking.

"Chimera are unconventional fire-team, Sir. They routinely flout regulations when it comes to armour modification, and are known for an abrasive and borderline mutinous relationship with their non-augmented handlers. Their relationship with Fireteam Platinum in particular is a matter of record, and their escape attempt twelve months ago led to a number of long-term hospitalisations of active service personnel. That they have been assigned a full-time psycho-therapist is indicative of an underlying instability when contrasted with comparative augmented units currently serving across FLEETCOM space."

Damien swallowed.

"Anything else?" Carter pressed.

Damien winced, bracing himself for more.

"Yes Sir. Their marksmanship records are excellent, their combat lethality scores are among the highest we have, and - as of this latest exercise - they remain a top-tier Spartan unit. They fight dirty, yes, they break rules, certainly, but they fight smart. As the Candidate-Leader said: they play to win."

Carter simply raised an eyebrow in surprise. Damien didn't quite believe his own ears.

"Your recommendation?"

"Active field duty, effective immediately. There's little more they can learn here without being put out into the field."

A note of pride entered Eric's voice as he continued.

"They're war dogs, Sir. Frontline operators. It's time we used them as such."

Damien didn't quite get a moment for the shock to subside. There came an abrupt bleep from Director Carter's communicator. He turned aside, raising a hand to his earpiece. There followed a terse, urgent exchange of words. An order was given. Finally he looked up at them all.

It was disquieting to see a man as redoubtable as Idris Carter unsettled. Even so, he addressed them calmly and clearly, looking at each member of Chimera in turn, Kaizen included.

"Under normal circumstances I would temporarily suspend you from this program, pending a comprehensive disciplinary review. Under normal circumstances, you would see a mandatory deduction from your combat score, and a subsequent punishment detail pending satisfactory re-evaluation. These are not normal circumstances."

Director Carter didn't get a chance to elaborate further. At that moment, a siren began to wail across the base. The Laconia Academy exploded into activity. A planet wide alert, full mobilisation.

"Armoury! Double time, Chimera!" Eric barked.

Down on the concourse, marine instructors hollered at their charges as troopers streamed toward Pelican dropships like army ants marching out to war. Mantis assault walkers tromped out of their hangars, weapons unfolding as they moved to the assembly area. Broadsword and Sabre Fighters lifted up from the starport. Kite Squadron had been deployed in full. Eric watched it all through the wide viewing window. The klaxons brought him back, to a time of churning smoke and shark-like wraiths, lurking and snarling in the shadows. He blinked his eyes to clear his vision of the vivid, unwelcome memory.

As the two men stood alone at the window, shoulder to shoulder, Idris Carter looked up at Eric, a grave look on his face.

"You wanted to put them in the field, 239? It seems that time might be sooner than we realised."


	18. XIV: Welcome to Granica

_"Welcome to Granica V, humanity's shining beacon at the edge of the unknown. Flush with the spirit of rebirth revitalising humanity, Granica represents everything you could hope for in a new life. With its exciting challenges and bountiful natural resources, this industrious new colony offers security, prosperity and - above all - stability in an ever-changing galaxy._

_Forget The Past: Choose A Future. "_

- Colonist information booklet, published by the United Earth Government Colonial Advisement Authority (published April 2554)

* * *

The revolution would end in blood. It began the same way.

They were hurrying through the central business district of Argjend, Granica V's capital city and principal financial center. All around them, people in crisp business suits hurried from one air-conditioned haven to the next. The sun rose high above the smooth-polished flagstones, throwing long dancing shadows along the sidewalk. Glazed corporate towers and high-density residential blocks rose up around them, glinting in the early morning air. Victory Plaza was a stark contrast to the rest of the habitations scattered across the planet, an edifice of silver metal and cream sandstone rendering. The streets were packed with ground traffic, which idled and purred at a standstill, bumper to bumper. A display zeppelin drifted lazily overhead, flashing up advertisements for Traxus, Infinitum Arms and MediTech; images of galloping horses and smiling blonde women; all excited eyes and perfect teeth. Even this far out on the boundary of human space, Argjend was a frenzied hive of commercial activity.

This had not always been the case. Argjend had been founded by industrious Albanian colonists two hundred years earlier, who had named the settlement for the striking manner in which the light struck off their prefabricated shelters when the sun rose at first light. Almost a century later, the city remained true to its name. As the city swelled up around the colony's original founding point and exploded in the post-war boom, city planners had endeavored to work silver as a design motif into as many surfaces as they could. It was inlaid in window frames, worked through the dusty yellow sandstone brickwork like strands of tinsel. The architecture in the city centre was classic 26th century modernism: majestic pinnacle towers, expansive suspension bridges and high rise alabaster apartment blocks, two hundred storeys high.

On a sunny day like this, the city didn't shine. It dazzled. Sunglasses became part of the uniform.

The companies had invested big here. The reasons were obvious to those who cared to dwell on them. There were no long-standing mass graves to be tip-toed around, no fields of burnt ash-glass or molten rock where humanity had once hoped to thrive, and had instead been entombed. No celebrated battles to be picked over by eager historians, or loud-mouthed interest groups to picket this site or that one. Here, they could build what they wanted. This was a fresh start, a genuine find.

There was a sterility to it, however; a certain rawness. The buildings, all fresh and modern, were overshadowed by a canopy of multi-coloured cranes where construction was beginning apace on the outlier parts of the city. The cut-glass of the headquarter buildings were unsullied by the regular rains of the northern continent. Everything seemed a bit too tidy, a bit too neatly planned: from the grid-iron pattern of the densely built streets to the steady hum of the capital's overhead Mag-Rail network, which bathed the streets below in a latticework of shadow. Argjend was a metropolis growing out of its infancy with all the awkward haste of a teenager.

Colony ships arrived from the Inner Colonies daily, bringing in new settlers by the thousands.

Two figures in particular stood out amongst the churning crowd milling across the plaza. Both by the determined speed with which they walked, and the way in which the crowd seamlessly parted around them.

Administrator Harold Taft was tall man, with a proud military bearing and only slight limp to his stride. Reconstructive surgery had served him well. You could only see the injuries if you cared to squint. An elected representative three terms running, Taft was the pinnacle of UEG Authority on Granica V. Right now he was busy fending off Amanda Jennings of the Alliance of Displaced Persons. The lobbyist was decidedly shorter than him, with a faded beauty prematurely aged by the stresses of the war. As head of one of the most influential NGO's in the Post-War Colonies, her influence was considerable.

Their arguing was not an uncommon occurrence.

"I see what you're saying, Amanda. Really, I do. But we simply don't have the resources."

"I can't placate people with promises forever, Henry, you know that." Amanda shot back, "We're running out of time. The UEG-"

"-is doing all it can, believe me. We're trying to run a city of fifty million people with infrastructure designed for twenty. Each and every settlement on this planet requires Argjend to run smoothly. Right now, its ability to do so is over-taxed, over-burdened, and certainly over-populated. Stresses are inevitable."

"_Stresses?_ I wouldn't call our problems _'stresses_', Harry. These are people we're talking about. Ill-housed, poorly fed. Look at New Cadiz. The warehouses down near Orbital Four aren't fit for habitation, not in that heat. And don't even get me started on the overcrowding over there."

"We had to find somewhere to put them. New Cadiz is the only other settlement with an orbital tether. That last intake damn near choked our own Spaceport. I've got the auto-manufactories pumping out as many prefab shelters as they can. We're already at capacity. Believe me, if there's something else we could have done, I would have authorised it personally."

It was then that a new voice cut them short.

"Mister Taft!"

He was a young man, clear eyed and eager, if a tad slight. Afterward, it was the eyes that would stay with Amanda. Clear and bright, almost startlingly in their intensity. He was dressed as a mail delivery man, with a carrying satchel slung over his shoulder. He held his hand back in an abortive half-wave. There was a nervous energy that crackled about him.

He stepped in front of them, waving again.

"Administrator Taft Sir!" the boy repeated.

The two representatives paused as the man stepped in front of him.

"What can I do for you, son?" Taft rumbled, lighting a welcoming smile despite the unwelcome interruption. It was that same affable charm that had got him elected twice before. The subtle warmth of that uncle you never had.

The young man with the clear, bright eyes shoved the pistol into Taft's chest. Fired twice. The shots rang up along the canyon glass walls of the street; a twinned crack of thunder. Warm blood spattered onto the pavement, onto Amanda's face, into her eyes; blinding her. The crowd around them detonated in a collective horrified shriek. They scattered like startled pigeons, clawing at one another to get away. Amanda threw herself to the ground, playing dead. The assassin vanished into the maelstrom, anonymous and soon forgotten.

Administrator Harold Taft had been elected on the back of his celebrated military service, which combined a natural charisma with grounded sincerity. It was a testament to his hardened constitution that he lasted a full six minutes as he bled out on the sun-warmed pavement. Amanda Jennings was with him until the end, elbow-deep in blood as she tried desperately to staunch wounds that simply could not be staunched.

By the time medical crews evacuated him into the back of an emergency response lifter, ten minutes later, he was already dead.

The revolution began in blood.

It would end the same way.

* * *

And so began the Granican War.

Years later, it would be classed as a police action; a minor peace-keeping expedition to a fledgling colony. This was the work of UEG spin-doctors, eager to contain the sheer violence unleashed upon that promising colony. That, and the fact events subsequent to the Granica War would eclipse it entirely.

The conflict began on March 2nd, 2557, with the public assassination of Administrator Harold Taft, a popular local figure, and it would not be until some three months later that a UNSC response fleet arrived in system. It was fortunate that the distance to the nearest UNSC patrol group happened to be as close as it was, relatively speaking. A coordinated military task-force, on a routine training exercises on an unoccupied world. That was the official line. Given the sheer scale of FLEETCOM's response, rumours abounded of a secret military installation in a nearby system, though such whispers were vehemently denied by official channels.

The recorded time-stamp attributed to the historical record was 16:22, March 2nd, 2557, Zulu Time.

Hostilities actually started four hours earlier, on the far side of the planet, in a troubled little mining city called New Cadiz.

Historians remain divided as to the original target of the uprising. Doubtless there were other settlements of greater strategic value. There was the twinned cities of Inari and Tana, industrious fishing ports of the Withered Sea, whose vast fishing fleets ploughed through the northern ice-floes; their bull-nosed hulls and heavy engines churning the frigid seas in their wake. With its vast fisheries and off-world exports, their destruction would strike a heavy blow to resource-dependent Inner Colonies; ravenous as they were in these straitened times. Other commentators, quick to join the debate, suggested alternative targets: the manufactories at Mariposa, or Carraig Nua or Madrid Nova, or a dozen other smaller settlements; each with their own unique industries and strategic value.

But history is a fickle thing and, on that first, bloody day its gaze fell upon New Cadiz.

The city lay on the border of the Massif Deadlands, a seemingly barren plain on the southern continent. A sprawling mass hard-packed from sandstone brickwork, locally sourced; the city had sustained population of five million, complimented by a transient population of ten. Where Argjend was the glittering jewel in Granica's crown, New Cadiz was the functional younger brother. Uglier, certainly, but well muscled and hard working. As the second foundling city on Granica, its mining contracts served as the principle underlying driver of the planet's economy. Coal, gas, diesel - natural resources were abundant. While Inner Colonies made do with nuclear fission and hard-processed fusion cores for their practical energy needs, countless industries still relied on the raw minerals strip-mined from Granica's core. Chem-plants, pharmaceuticals, experimental sciences. The list was long, and the need for skilled labourers longer still.

It made infiltrating the city all the easier.

The off-worlders came in from the capital; small teams of mining crews, dock workers and orbital stevedores, ferried in by overland coaches, inter-continental MagRail and sub-atmospheric shuttlecraft. Three hundred thousand souls a week, or so the shipping manifests said. This was not unusual. Though a backwater, New Cadiz was a mining installation of staggering size, and fresh shift crews routinely flushed through on a six month rotational basis.

The sprawling nature of the city demonstrated firsthand how many new structures were required to house its transient population. Unlike Argjend, there was no strict rhyme or reason to the layout of the city beyond a centralised administrative heartland, bisected by a central road network. Ribbon development simply spiraled out from wherever and whenever a new ore vein was discovered. JOTUN lifters tilled vast fields of GM crops in the surrounding wastes, the crops themselves irrigated by spraying geysers of misting water. Such was the rough and ready nature of post-war settlement.

The demand for new housing dictated that the majority of structures were either prefabricated shanties or crude houses mashed together by local stone and infill polycrete. The locals were just as varied. On paper, the latest intake into New Cadiz were air-tight legitimate; with authorised work permits and triple-signed transfer slips, but any sharp-eyed observer would have seen the was trouble a mile off.

It was the uniform demographic of the workers that gave it away. They were all singularly male, an unusual occurrence in these modern times. They carried bulging duffel bags, and had masked their faces with handkerchiefs and respirator masks designed for low-vent shaft work. There were few uniforms associated with traditional mining interests, though this itself was not seen as unusual. Prospect work was marked as a typical profession for the would-be 26th century cowboy.

What was unusual was that, once they arrived, the normally transient work crews _weren't_ flushing back out. Locals were pushed out of their homes, intimidated by silent stares and soft pressure. Hard shoulders appeared in busy crowds, graffiti spray lambasted the more stubborn locals as UNSC toadies, or criminals or a dozen other spurious lies. Leaflets were scattered in public places, and local water shortages (a source of constant concern in the arid climate) were blamed on inadequate government services. The pamphlets never quite revealed that the water shortages were entirely engineered by the city's newfound residents.

The success of the uprising lay in its persistence. From almost a year earlier, infiltration teams had worked their way into the local populace, seamlessly integrating as legitimate workers. By the time the final group of insurgents arrived, fully a third of the city's populace were actively insurrectionist, with another third openly sympathetic of anti-government forces, spurred on by a concerted campaign of misinformation and outright propaganda. This pattern was repeated planet-wide, albeit on a smaller scale.

It should be noted as a matter of historical record that overcrowding had been an endemic problem across the planet. Space wasn't a problem: after all, there were vast stretches of the planet that were wild and untamed, but within the settlements themselves, there was too little space for too many people. Tempers flared. It was a matter of density. As one of the few outlier colonies which had not been glassed, invaded or otherwise torched by the Covenant's genocidal invasion, demand for places on world had been poorly managed, and those that had arrived had been integrated just as badly. Demand had been too high, immigration too lax.

When the Cadiz Rebellion finally exploded into life, four years after the Human Covenant War, it enveloped the planet's surface with all the ravenous hatred of a marauding brush-fire. When the rebels took to the street, hollering slogans and spraying wild shots into the air, a significant portion of the much put-upon refugees rose up along with them, swept up in the giddy chaos.

Chimera would arrive with the 4th Expedition Fleet, three months later. By then, the civil war would be in full swing.

By then, thousands would have already perished.

* * *

The problem with routine combat patrols is that they tend to be just that - routine.

Corporal Mike Lerner grimaced as he reached up to the visor of his helmet and peeled another mashed bug off his visor. He had made the mistake of leaning out past the windshield, and caught a face full of bug for his troubles. Despite the searing heat, Lerner was suddenly glad of the keffiyeh wrapped over his nose and mouth.

Binkowski was speaking again. Lerner was hardly surprised: PFC. Binkowski was a large and garrulous man. Like Mike, he was dressed in the digital pattern desert camouflage and the slope back helmet worn by all members of the 325th Airborne Infantry Regiment. He had an habitual addiction to Chum®, a FLEETCOM approved gum-based combat stimulant, which interspersed noisy clicks between every syllable. Binks didn't so much speak to you, so much as _chewed_ at you, his jaw working around the words in a series of messy, wet sucking sounds.

"You know, Mike, years from now," Binks chewed, "Long after the last terrorist has fallen, and humanity has declared itself heir apparent to all the worlds and all the universes it can find, you're going to be able to say to your grandchildren 'I was _there_, man; I was there, in the Massif _Wasteland_… in the _daytime_'."

"...And I had to spend it with _this_ asshole." Mike added.

"What?" Binks turned, his jaw still working on the gum. The wind whipped past them, tugging at the loose straps on their gear and batting them with a chilly but welcome breeze. Binks was as solid a Ranger as you could ask for in a firefight. Half-deaf from getting too close to a plasma mortar on Reach, but solid.

Behind them, manning the Warthog's assault cannon and similarly impassive in a mouth-wrapped keffiyeh and dust goggles, Specialist Lopez's shoulders shook with silent laughter.

"I said whatever, Binks," Lerner replied, gesturing vaguely at the 'Hog in front of them, "Keep your eyes on the road."

They drove on. All around them, endless desert spread out as far as the eye could see. Aside from the convoy of vehicles stretching out before them, their only company were the berms. Low walls of hard-packed dirt, they overshadowed the ditches at the road's edge, running for hundreds of kilometres across the planet's surface - an old gift from the original nomadic settlers who'd arrived in system over a hundred years ago.

"You have to agree though, Mike," Binkowski would not allow himself to be deterred from a well-chewed conversation, "For elite combat infantry, this is a serious misallocation of military resources."

"Orders are orders, Binks," Lerner replied, squinting out at the horizon "Innies move here, the Rangers follow."

"Whatever happened to _Rangers Lead the Way_, Sir?" Lopez asked, his voice static-chopped from his helmet mic. "Wasn't that what we signed up for?"

"You're Mexican, Lopez," Binks grinned playfully, "You'd believe anything."

"Yeah, well fuck you, man; Hooah?"

"Hooah!" Binks agreed, laughing.

He was still laughing when the Warthog in front of them exploded in a curling cloud of flame.

"Shit! _Shit!_" Binks threw the wheel to the left. The 'Hog slid into a spin, the dust blinding them.

The com channel burst into panic.

_"IED! IED!"_

Curling flames had blocked them from the rest of the convoy. Lerner hopped out, slapping the side of the bonnet.

"Stay on the wheel!" Lerner shouted over his shoulder. Lopez started panning the gun around the horizon.

Pings and pops of bending metal began to appear in the bonnet of their Warthog. Then they heard it. The patter-crackle of small arms fire. The hissing snap as hard rounds came in. Sound caught up with speed.

"Under fire!" one of the Rangers hollered over the com, "Contacts, four-hundred metres! _East!"_

Lopez swung the assault cannon to bear. It juddered to life in his hands. Only the winking slice of tracer fire revealed their attackers' position - an overlooking hill far out in the wastes. The heat haze distorted everything, but even without his VISR-assisted monocle, Lopez could see what he was shooting at.

Insurgents.

A white contrail split the sky. The round punched clean through metal shielding of the rear-mounted cannon. Then the boom rent the air, the visceral sound of it rattling Lerner's ripcage. Lopez fell back, screaming. There was blood everywhere.

"He's hit! He's fucking hit!" Binks cried out, diving from the driver's seat down to the relative shelter of the Warthog's muscular front wheels.

The two standing Rangers grabbed Lopez by the grab bar on the neck-lining of his body armour, hauling him bodily from the Warthog. The 'Hog rocked on its suspension as more rounds cracked into the hull. Bodywork chipped and sparked as the LRV shook. They hauled Lopez over to the shelter of the berm. Lerner could hear the dull _thuft_ of rounds impacting into the earthwork revetment.

Miraculously, the anti-material round had actually missed Lopez entirely; instead rebounding off the metal lining of the LAAG's deflector guard and peppering him with biting shrapnel. Had the round connected proper, Lopez's entire torso would have been gone.

"You're okay, Lopez, you're going to be okay!" Binks was shouting.

"Is it bad, is it bad, is it bad," Lopez was stammering. The keffiyeh had fallen away from his face. Blood leaked from his left nostril.

"Med-pack!"

They tore open its contents. Sachets of sterilisation powder and rolling tubes of bio-foam tumbled across the dirt road, tinkling as they grabbed at them. Binks frantically snatched one up, loading the dispenser and activating it with a snap-twist. The sealing toggle-clasp of the dispenser was loose, and Binks swore violently as he jiggled it into place. Finally, the foam-tube clicked shut. Foam squirted all over the place. Binks fought to control it, getting the tool to seal Lopez's weeping cuts. There were too many to count. The BDU was shredded, and where it wasn't shredded, it was seeping wet. The wounded Ranger slumped back as the foamy-gel's anesthetic took hold, his pain slipping away in a balmy haze.

Lerner shimmied up to the edge of the berm; sliding his BR-85 over the lip of the bank and rattling off angry bursts of suppressive fire. With his other hand he activated the platoon-wide com. Panic cries and frantically barked orders filled his ears.

The Ranger column, Strike Team Brigand, had been caught at either end by simultaneously triggered improvised explosive charges; primed by short range radio carrier wave. Lerner's 'Hog had fell just short of the ambush kill zone. The others, trapped on either side by billowing towers of wafting flame, were effectively pinned.

But trapped UNSC Rangers are no mere lambs to be slaughtered. They were the pride of the UNSC Army: a force of shock troopers steeped in history and wrapped in ferocious glory. The single smartest thing the UNSC ever did in its rise to galactic dominance had been the systemic adoption of every effective fighting force ever conceived in the field of modern combat. UNSC Army Rangers were yet another example of why this policy would prove to be vindicated in the cruel eyes of galactic history. They were warriors, proud and true.

Strike Team Brigand rallied, the drivers and passengers of the Warthogs dismounting and bellying low against the insulating cover of the berm. Tufts of spitting dirt popped up all around them, but to little effect.

Brigand went to war.

Suppressive fire, thrown down by the rear-mounted assault cannons. Hissing smoke grenades tumbled over into no man's land, obscuring their position from the enemies' pre-sighted weapons. Heat-scopes picked out the ambushers, a score of rag-tag militia lurking in the waists, be-masked in environment gears and tattered rags. A short range tactical drone was sent up by the platoon's tech specialist, beaming a bird's eye view of the battlefield down to the eye-monocles of the fire team leaders. It showed the Ranger column trapped in between two ruined Warthogs, under assault from a numerically inferior force.

The rebels' response to the coordinated response was immediate. They melted away, the occasional muzzle flash falling silent. Had they failed to do so, there would have only been one outcome. After a minute sound of incoming fire had faded away. Lerner half-rose up, cautious. Only the occasional pop and crack from the Ranger's located in the centre of the kill zone told him that their attackers had stolen away into the barren desert.

"All units, cease fire!" A few rifle shots sounded out, "I said cease fire!"

It took a minute for the order to seep through to the men, amped as they were on adrenaline. Slowly, silence returned, and the blowing breeze became the only sound once more.

Lerner looked back at where Binks was crouched protectively over Lopez. Lopez was out cold, laid out in the recovery position. Binks' actions had no doubt saved the man's life.

"Fuck was that, man?" Binks breathed, eyes wider than wide. He was still riding the combat high.

Neither of them had ever fought humans before. They had barely even glimpsed the enemy. The shock of it rattled them both.

"No idea, Binks," Learned replied, breathless himself. "One thing's for sure..."

Lerner licked a scaly tongue over cracked lips, and wondered how he managed to get so dehydrated all of a sudden. Finally he finished his sentence.

"…it's going to get worse, before it gets better."

"Hooah man," Binks nodded, swallowing hard. "Fuckin' Hooah."


	19. XV: Carpathia

_Then._

They stood at the observation window, shoulder to shoulder. Director Carter had cancelled the bleating assembly alarm. That the infantry were to assemble for orbital embarkation had been made clear enough. Particularly so now that a Stalwart Class Frigate, the UNSC _Carpathia_, had kissed down on the damp asphalt of the open concourse. It bathed the entire facility in its shadow; running lights pulsing in the fading evening light like blinking stars. Armoured Personnel Carriers loitered at its belly, clustering like suckling pigs. Eric watched it all, his eyes tracking the activity below with the darting quickness of the augmented.

"You leave in twenty minutes, 239. I'll leave force allocation entirely to you."

"Three teams should be sufficient."

"Fifteen Spartans? Isn't that overkill?"

"Prudence, Sir. We're going in blind. I'd rather not take chances."

"Three teams then. You'd better get prepped."

Eric made for the lift. He was halfway there when Director Carter's voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Who did you choose?"

Eric turned around.

"Sir?"

"The Fireteams. Who have you chosen?"

Eric considered the question for a moment. He already knew his answer.

"The pick of the litter. Platinum, Trident." Eric paused, "Chimera."

"Chimera? Is that wise, given the mayhem they've caused?"

"It's precisely because that mayhem that I'm want them with us when we hit Granica V."

Idris Carter nodded sagely, satisfied. He pulled a crisp salute.

"Godspeed Spartan. Make sure you bring them home."

Eric returned the salute smartly.

"I intend to, Sir."

* * *

That had been two weeks ago. The resulting journey had been uneventful, and the Spartans had spent the time nestled within the central troop hold of the _Carpathia_. Their billet was large enough for an entire company of soldiers, though the excess bunks had instead been cleared, replaced with Armour Assistant prep stations, crudely soldered onto the deck. The Spartans, long since conditioned to daily struggles and relentless physical training, quickly proved themselves to be poorly suited to dormant inactivity. They grew restless, agitated.

By the third week, each Spartan had adopted their own particular coping rituals to deal with the boredom. Chidinma's was to stare out the view-ports, where the folding webs of light pulsed around the ship's hull. She found it soothing. Down by her side, her hand shook; a very slight tremble.

"Nervous?"

Chidinma looked up, her trance broken. It was one of Trident, a Japanese man by the name of Kazuo. He was slight for a Spartan, and wore a polite smile as he kept a respectful distance. Kazuo was older than she was, but had a youthful nature that stood in sharp contrast to her own regal solemnity. Like her, he was fully armoured up to the neck, though his was a midnight black, streaked with crimson, where hers was the uniform pale blue worn by Chimera.

She looked down at her hand, frowning. Still it quaked.

"Good," Kazuo said, stepping forward, "That makes two of us."

"I did not think I was." Chidinma confessed, "But now I stand here... and my hand; it will not stop. I have not seen war since a little girl. I thought things would be different as an adult. I find myself... worried."

"You're worried? At least you're a pilot. You could always steal a ship if things got to grim. Fly to safety." Kazuo leaned forward, "Besides, it could be a lot worse."

"How so?"

Kazuo smiled conspiratorially.

"A confession: before this, I was a gas station attendant."

She pictured his imposing black armour adorned with an apron, filling up somebody's tank. That made her laugh. Hard.

"Better." he remarked, before making his way up the corridor. Chidinma looked down. She blinked in surprise, a half-smile still frozen on her face.

Her hand was no longer shaking.

* * *

"Spartans on deck!"

Eric's footfalls hit the deck plate with reverberating clunks. His crimson body-plate was polished to a mirror sheen, though the pitted dents in its surface told a hundred stories, seldom pleasant. Behind him, three other Spartans followed in his wake: Loic, Chase and Damien. Factory fresh, their armour was similarly polished, and entirely undented.

An awed hush fell across the bridge. All eyes fell upon them. Eric nodded in acknowledgement, once, his golden visor betraying nothing. He presented himself before the captain, saluting crisply.

"Captain Reade."

"Spartan 239. Welcome aboard the Carpathia. Glad you decided to come visit us."

Captain Reade was a matronly woman, mid fifties, with grey hair that was almost white. The flesh of her eyes showed years of strain. Even so, the eyes themselves were kind; there was no sting to her remarks, but you could sense the steel within her. Damien warmed to her instantly, but kept his mouth shut. Eric was talking.

"My teams have unique billeting requirements, Ma'am; I've been focusing on their needs for now, but though it best to introduce ourselves before we commit to the AO. As a matter of courtesy."

"I'm sure." she looked up at the black, white, and blue armoured Spartans standing to the rear. "And these fine gentlemen are?"

Eric stood to one side, gesturing to each of the silent giants in turn.

"Fireteam Leaders Loic Bellard, Chase Keller, and… Damien."

"Damien…?" Captain Reade asked leadingly, eyebrow raised.

Damien paused for a moment, caught out. He never considered using the surname of his adoptive parents; Adams. It didn't fit him.

So instead he smiled politely, though the expression was entirely lost behind the visor.

"Just Damien, Ma'am. Spartan 451 if we're standing on ceremony."

"Well good to have you with us then, Damien." Captain Reade turned back to Eric, "I'll get your boys out to Granica in one piece. We'll be rendezvousing with the UNSC _Reliant_ and _Hood_ upon reversion. ETA is four days. Can your men keep settled until then?"

"Don't worry Ma'am," Eric replied, "I'm sure they'll find ways to amuse themselves."

* * *

Days passed.

Rashid stepped out from the Armour Assistant. The paint job was a nano-adhesive paint render, which instantly dried upon re-coating. Rashid's GUNGIR pattern armour, with its bulky face-plate and single eye lens, had been repainted a combination of dark silver-grey and industrial orange on the larger sections of the bodysuit. His own design.

"Awesome." Luke decided, as he watched his friend examine himself on a viewing monitor.

"You always say that." Rashid replied, "You always describe everything as '_awesome'_."

"Because everything _is_ awesome." Luke insisted, before he screwed his face up, head cocked to one side, "Except…"

"Except what?"

"Except you kind of look like a forklift truck."

"That's imaginative, coming from the man who coloured his armour _grey_."

"It's _steel_, actually, and it blends in with the ship around us. It's _practical_."

"Well so's my foot up your arse. Besides, we'll be on a planet anyway, you imbecile, I don't see-"

A third voice shushed them.

"Quiet." Viktorya hissed. Her nose was pressed in a book, her legs folded beneath her.

Both Spartans shut up at once.

Viktorya had already painted her armour; a pragmatic digital pattern. Ever the professional, she'd had the Assistant base the design on historical satellite images taken from one of Granica's orbital relay hub. _Stay prepared_, that was what Father had taught her. She would refine it once she knew where on the planet they were going to be deployed. Until then, she would read.

"What are you reading?" Rashid asked curiously.

"A book."

"I know that, dear. Rare to see paper these days. But _which_ book, do you mind me asking?"

"Intelligence." she grunted.

"That's a tourist guide." Luke pointed out amiably.

"No it is not. It is intelligence guide."

"'A Guide to Granica, by Georgios Georgopoulos." Luke read aloud. "Well that's an unfortunate name."

That got a grin out of Rashid.

"The alliteration _is_ rather ill-advised, I agree. Almost constitutes child abuse, really."

Luke snickered.

"I know, right? Try say it three times fa-"

Luke ducked, fast. The book struck the bulkhead where his head had been moments before.

Viktorya scowled at them both.

"We have a mission soon. You will focus, or it will get you killed."

With that, she got to her feet and stalked from the room. Damien was stepping in the same door as she swept by. He looked at the two other sheepish Spartans. An air of guilt draped the room. Damien reached up and doffed his helmet, unsealing it with a click.

"What's got Vee all riled up?" Damien asked.

"Nerves, I expect." Rashid replied, "Can't say I blame her. It's our first big show; our first real one, in any case. We're all being driven a little scatty. I think I've read just about everything there is to read on this tub."

Luke opened his mouth again.

"Except for the Guide to Granicus by Geo-"

"Can it, Grey. And it's Granic_a_."

Luke looked at Damien in protest.

"Don't look at me, Luke: he's the brains of the operation, not me." Damien replied, "Listen up: briefing is at 0800 hours. Rash, go round up the other two will you? Luke, go with him. Try not to have Vee break your arms in the process."

"Got it, One." Rash said.

"Aye-aye, Chief. Always was partial to my arms."

Damien did a double take.

"And what in God's name have you done to your armour?"

Luke pointed over the Armour Assistant.

"What, don't tell me you expect us to wear our training colours for the rest of our lives, do you? We're Spartans now, we get to choose; hell, it's in the regs. Ask Rash."

"For once he's actually right." Rash nodded. "Just don't blame me if Luke decides to set the default pattern to flaming pink."

Damien looked at the Armour Assistant mounted on the wall, then at the baby blue of his training Armour.

A thoughtful look crossed his face.

"I suppose it would nice to have something with a little more… style."

* * *

Not for the first time that week, Dr. Rebecca Pearson wondered why Idris Carter insisted she tag along.

She winced as she smacked her forehead off the bulkhead over her bunk bed. Longingly, she thought of her apartment back on New Francisco, long since abandoned, but never quite forgotten.

FLEETCOM had difficulty sympathising with the logistics behind letting a psych-analyst accompany the task force, and had reacted to Director Carter's insistence poorly: petulantly assigning her a tiny washroom cupboard of a billet. They had told her the room was an officer's billet, that to have a room to one's self on a Navy vessel was a privilege. Privately she had her doubts. The seams around the lie began to show, evidenced by the number of spare parts and storage materials dumped around the base of her bed. She wondered what the room's previous owner could have done to warrant being assigned this personal hell.

There came a knock at the door. It was Rashid.

"Rash." she smiled groggily, "Your armour's different."

"A matter of taste, Doctor." he stepped into the officer's quarter. The tiny room became infinitely smaller all of a sudden. He lowered his voice, holding up a memory transfer chit. "Regarding our previous conversation. Don't worry, I've removed the encryption alarms."

She took the chit from his massive armoured gauntlet, looking up at him.

"How did you get this?"

"You'll be amazed how many doors unlock once you've had an ONI A.I. spend a few days rattling about in your suit's neural lace."

Rebecca slipped the chit into the side of her data pad. The holo-pane extended, filling the walls and ceiling of the cramped cabin with a thousand flickering images. Most of them red.

The recordings flashed up, relaying helmet cam footage at dizzying speed. Of Insurrectionists, shrieking as they were torn apart. Of Elites, snarling into the lens of the camera, only to be butchered shortly thereafter. Weapons discharge, hissing plasma. Each memory was punctuated by an angry vid-blurt of frenzied violence. An older memory; of Spartans in cruder armour than those worn by the Chimera candidates. Ones with bulbous visors and what appeared to be shifting coats of mirrored glass. They died, one by one. Countless Covenant died with them.

Spartan 239's Psyche profile loaded shortly thereafter. Spartan III Candidate, first combat mission undertaken age 15. A thousand red flags glared up from the tiny projected screen. Anti-social tendencies, fits of uncontrolled rage. A willingness to undertake dozens of missions, each more potentially suicidal than the last. A checkered record of what the ONI spooks termed "unacceptable audacity" in neutralising anti-establishment threats. And that wasn't even the half of it. Even the redacted files had been heavily censored. EYES ONLY, the screen read. ADDITIONAL CLEARANCE REQUIRED. Rebecca looked up at Rashid, shocked.

"Fireteam Scimitar." the Spartan said grimly. "An older ONI story, and one even less pretty than Chimera's. Child soldiers; half our age. It's not a pretty picture, is it?"

"He's not combat certified." Rebecca breathed. "Not since the war ended."

"You're not here for us, Doctor." Rashid's targeting lens fixed her squarely, "You're here for _him_."

* * *

The briefing commenced at 0800 sharp, as Captain Reade promised.

The briefing chamber was a deep, sloping room with theater seats laid out in a wide semi-circle around a centralised holo-console. The Captain stood on the main presentation platform, accompanied by Eric and a number of senior staff members.

Only key Navy personnel had been permitted. A sea of mid ranking officers from a vast array of disciplines; transport chiefs, fighter pilots, and flight officers from the Pelican crews. The safe deployment of the ground teams would be their immediate responsibility. Mixed in with the above were a number of colourful parties. Veteran officers from the 34/1st Armoured Reconnaissance Division, mech jockeys all, rubbed shoulders with senior service personnel from the 605th Mechanised. They were swarthy types, machine crews used to deafening noise and trundling power.

The bulk of the infantry would be drawn from the "Fighting" 40th Marine Battalion, who were recognisable by their jar-top haircuts and muscular frames. Their C.O., Lieutenant Colonel Raymond Howard, would have the single largest force of infantry under his command. He was a burly man of African-American descent; cool-headed and experienced. The task force could do a lot worse than a man of his calibre. The marines around him wore white boarding helmets, their eyes hidden by gold-tinted eye-visors.

Sitting to the right hand side of the chamber were the traditional special forces: members of the 22nd Royal Commando and the 808th Pathfinders. The 22nd Commando wore uniform Air Assault-pattern helmets and sleek ebony body suits. The 808th were a somewhat grubbier lot, whose gear was a mismatch of traditional ODST armour, Beta-V security gear and more loosely cobbled together field kit. Some wore beanie caps, others bandanas, and a large percentage of them proudly sported bristly beards. The only semblance of a uniform they shared was a crisp Green Beret, which would never be worn in-field. Where the Royal Commando specialised in hard-contact orbital drop raids, the Pathfinders would be responsible for prepping the battlefield in advance of the primary task force: planting signal markers, providing reconnaissance of target objectives, and liaising with ground-side sympathisers to build a logistical support network, in the event centralised government had fallen apart. Both units were consummate professionals, the very best of the best.

Then there were the Spartans.

All fifteen Spartans had been permitted into the briefing room. They were simply too large to fit in any of the seats provided, so they stood at the back, at the height of the chamber. That the practiced veterans sitting below them kept straining their necks to turn around and gawk at them showed how curious a sight they were.

And what a sight. Fireteam Platinum stood out for their uniform pearlescent armour and impassive golden visors. They stood stock still and attentive, quietly absorbing every little detail, making efficient notes on their data pads. _Ruthless and machine-like as ever_, Damien thought to himself. Chase only spared him the slightest glance.

Trident were almost a complete tonal swap; their night-black armour highlighted by fiery reds. There was the mighty Maori, Aata, and the comparatively diminutive Gurkha, Suraj. Loic, his tanned face exposed, nodded to Damien from across the room, offering a wan smile. Damien returned a nod, touching his brow in a casual salute. He was glad Trident were here. Of all the fire teams on Laconia, they were the closest thing Chimera had to an ally.

Damien caught more than a few stares directed in Chimera's direction, and he took a moment to consider the appearance of his own mob.

They were the most eclectic mix of Spartans by far. There was Rashid in his deep orange and silver-grey armour, Viktorya in her ever-pragmatic digital stripe. Chidinma had settled on a dark and vibrant purple Aviator Pattern suit. Her reasoning for the colouration was suitably grim: were she ever to bail out in a space-brawl, she'd rather be mistaken for a piece of Covenant wreckage than not. Luke exchanged a look with Damien, rapping his breastplate with a closed fist for luck. The younger Spartan was still clad in his steel-grey "Imagination Armour" - a term he had coined for the specific purpose of annoying Rashid.

Damien caught his own reflection in the polished machinery hanging down from the roof-mounted projector suite.

Damien's armour was dressed in a far deeper shade of navy blue than it had previously. White racing stripes ran up the vertical lines of the armour, picking out the raised edges, and a UNSC Eagle had been stenciled on the top of his Recruit-Pattern helmet. Beyond that, he had retained the armour for all but the smallest of improvements, even keeping the standard opal VISR. The armour was the only thing he'd ever owned, and it had served him well. He saw little reason to change it now.

A low announcement chime called the briefing to order. A hush fell over the chattering crowd. Captain Reade and even Spartan 239 snapped to attention as a lone figure stepped down from the ready room at the back of the briefing hall. The entire room rose to its feet.

General William F. Stape was in his late fifties, but his back spine stood ramrod straight. Clean shaven with tanned wrinkled skin; his face resembled a rumpled towel, and was topped with a layer of ice-white hair, razor sharp. From the haunted look in his eyes, it was clear his time as a Marine had never left him. As Damien's VISR tracked over him, it automatically uploaded an exhaustive list of combat citations and command ribbons. There were too many to read, but the time-stamps appended to his term of service stood out in particular. _A thirty year veteran, astounding._

General Stape waved them back into their seats.

"At ease, people, I'll try to be brief."

His voice was husky; whether this was from too much whiskey or too many years breathing plasma fire was difficult to tell (the rumours varied) - and not the type of question you'd ask if you valued your spleen. His beady eyes stared out at them all over lips of tired flesh, but he wore a friendly expression, despite the reputation.

"Welcome to Taskforce _Enduring Resolve_. As you might have guessed from our distinguished colleagues at the back of the room, FLEETCOM has given me oversight to bring in the very best; Army, Navy and specialised Spartan personnel. I want to make one thing clear from the on-set: I'm an Marine, through and through, but a also a fair man. There'll be no favourites here."

Stape favoured Eric with a side glance.

"That goes for your Spartans too, 239."

"I wouldn't have it any other way, Sir."

"Good." The General waved a hand. The holo-projector reacted to the data-aura projected by his neural lace, and the display shimmered into life.

"The planet we're inbound toward is Granica V. It's a large colony, as Outer Colonies go, and it remains in CENTCOM's interest to make sure we keep it that way. Population of three billion, scattered across a few key settlements. Both the UNSC _Hood_ and _Reliant_ are in transit from Capernicus Station. They're about a week behind us."

Granica looked just like any other habitable world. A smear of blues and greens, feathered with white splotches of sifting cloud. Two major landmasses were depicted on the rotating globe. Red pulsating dots depicted major settlements. Two in particular stood out, large hoop-spined towers rising out to a small cluster of orbital constructs hovering above the planet's surface.

"Our first priority lies in securing and maintaining the two Orbital Tethers linking up with the planet's orbital loading infrastructure. That means getting boots on the ground on two settlements: the capital, Argjend, and the city of New Cadiz, a minor city on the southern continent. Nothing gets in or off world without filtering through these cities first. Ground-side information reports are sketchy, but we understand there is a significant insurrectionist presence on Granica."

Raymond Howard raised an arm.

"Estimated force strength, Sir?" he asked.

"Undetermined at this time, Colonel. One of the first things the Innies took down were the planet's transmission network - believe me when I say we're in the dark as much as you are."

The General pressed on.

"A combined Marine and armoured support column will deploy to Argjend directly. Secure the governmental seat, and establish a localised command post from which we can effect ground-side operations. Spartan Fireteams Platinum and Trident, you'll assist Lieutenant Colonel Howard's men in restoring order to the capital. Combined Operational Designation is Combat Two-Zero."

Loic and Chase both gave determined nods. The Marines took notes, as professional as ever.

"The second Tether will fall down to Combat Two-Two. That's the 31st/1st, 605th Mechanised and you, Fireteam Chimera. Two-Two will land forty klicks south of New Cadiz and proceed along the central highway, the I-17. We're not anticipating much in the way of resistance here, but stay on your guard. Anything could happen."

One of the 22nd Commando was the next to raise his hand. Damien's HUD identified him as Henry Fowler, Operator. The bulk of his file was classified, pending ONI approval. English born, judging by the accent; gruff, no-nonsense.

"Sir. Our orders?"

"The 22nd will stay in reserve; I'll want a hard-contact response team ready to respond as required, and believe me you're it. The 808th Pathfinders will drop in ahead of both combat elements. Secure the landing areas, prep for the ground teams."

Chase rose his hand in protest.

"Sir, request permission to accompany the Pathfinders. That's a high risk op."

_Always looking for the glory, eh Chase?_ Damien thought to himself.

"Denied, Platinum One." Eric replied, stepping forward to address him. "Securing the Tethers remains priority one; your team is needed there. High risk ops are the Pathfinder's specialty. Fireteam Chimera provide assistance if required."

"Hoo-ah," one of the Army operators murmured in assent.

General Stape stepped to the fore once more. He rested his hands on the border of the holo-projector. Starkly under-lit by the harsh light thrown up by the projector, his face became laden with responsibility, his eyes frank and open.

"Make no mistake, gentlemen: we are going in blind here. This will be a liquid situation. Orders may change, priorities and objectives too. I have faith in your abilities: they tell me you're the best, and I expect you to exceed those expectations. Any further questions? No? Good."

General Stape rose to his full height. The room rose with him. He snapped a salute.

"We transition in twelve hours, approximate. Make ready. Write your families, make preparations for your loved ones as required. If you're a praying man, make peace with whatever God you have. With a little luck, we should be home and safe within a month or so."


	20. XVI: Prepare to Drop

_"Combat stresses are inevitable. The majority of Chimera have some form of documented PTSD from early childhood. We've tried to counter it; subliminal hypnotherapy, repeated high-end mental resistance training and regular psychiatric review, but in the end a lot of it comes down to the individual._

_Spartans are different to us. It may sound difficult to believe that now, having spent so much time observing them, getting to know them, as I have. But there's no denying it. The candidates chosen for the Spartan IV Program are remarkable. There's a timbre there; a resilience unmatched by anything I've ever seen. They say Olympic athletes are born with an innate ability to transcend the pain barrier, to master it and put paid to its damning limitations. I suspect Spartans are drawn from the same pool of limitless resolve._

_But Chimera I worry about. Tenacious and driven, yes. Gifted? Certainly. But there's a price for that brilliance. When they make landfall on Granica I am left to wonder: will they prove themselves in the field, as they have done, time and simulated time again?_

_Or will they break?"_

Personal notes of Dr. R. Pearson, civilian specialist appended to the Spartan posting on UNSC Frigate _Carpathia_ (notes digitally intercepted by UNSC AI designate KZN, April 2557)

* * *

"Two minutes to reversion."

The atmosphere on the bridge crew cinched tight with breathless anticipation. It was always this way before a reversion. In the past, it often meant an oncoming brush with death; a violent encounter with a fleet of technologically superior alien fanatics. Times were different now. The _Carpathia_ had been refitted with a plethora of shield upgrades, hull reinforcements and superior weapon systems. Like any post-war UNSC vessel, the ship could stand its own in a stand-up space-brawl. But still, memories remained. So too did the tension.

There was a gentle warbling tone, and the ship-wide PA came to life.

"All hands, prepare for Slipspace reversion. ETA, one minute."

Bridge crew sat primed at their stations, fingers hovering over their control consoles. Captain Reade stood high up on the central command dais, one hand resting on the guard rail. A sifting aura of cloud data shimmered around her, thrown up by the holo-projection suite. Reports on local conditions swam overhead, like schools of pilot fish, ready to refresh and update from a single flick of her hand. Their intel prior to entering Slipspace was almost a month old. A liquid situation, as General Stape had put it. _Potentially poisonous liquid_, in Reade's opinion. Nevertheless, any worries she pushed aside. Sharp reflexes could mean the difference between life and death.

General Stape stood behind her now, ready to issue orders to the dispersal teams. Spartan 239 lurked by his side; an impassive armoured shadow. The briefing had been odd for Reade. Having a seasoned ground pounder call the shots was not something she was used to. But this was a Joint Strike Operation, and FLEETCOM's chain of command was clear. Shipboard matters remained her specialty, however. For now, the old man was silent, content to let Captain Reade to run her ship. That was good.

After all, she ran it well.

"All stations; Precautionary Alert: Status Indigo. Weapons, I want you online. Shields too. Eyes sharp and stay focused."

"Aye Captain." a chorus of voices replied.

Lieutenant Lamar, the ship's navigator, was hunched over his console, studying the countdown timer with the utmost concentration. Sweat beaded the hairline beneath his stark widow's peak.

"Reversion in five, four, three, two -" Captain Reade's knuckles whitened on the hand rail, "- one-"

With a shuddering lurch the star field flared into a climactic wall of light, before resolving itself into the tranquil hush of the Granica System. The planet rose up beneath them, filling the lower half of the display like a luminous blanket; a tapestry of verdant greens, deep-sea blues; stark whites and rusted orange. Frothy cloud jacketed the surface of the planet. The system's star flashed up amber-gold over the horizon of the planet's curvature: a first class sunrise on a truly galactic scale.

The targeted jump had brought them into the upper atmosphere of Granica V, some 200 kilometres from the border of the Granica System's Interstellar Jump Point.

"Navigation, report."

"We're at the edge of the Granica ISJ, Ma'am. Report just came in from Engineering: all systems nominal."

Captain Reade nodded once, coolly satisfied. Not bad, as Slipspace jumps went.

"Sensors, any activity?"

"No active threats, Ma'am. Detecting multiple orbital freighters around Tethers One and Two, but nothing unusual. Cargo haulers, varying patterns; three large scale civilian transport vessels, and standard administration craft - tug boats, mainly. It looks like the majority of orbital traffic has already skipped town."

"Noted, monitor it and get me a report on previous ship activity. Where they came from, likely destinations. And keep an eye on those that stayed. I don't want anyone else leaving the system without me knowing about it first."

"Understood, Captain."

Reade turned to the young looking crew member stationed at the dwarfing bank of com-monitors; a listening set perched on her ears.

"Ensign Bakar, any hails from the planet?"

The petite coms officer peeled one ear-piece away from her ear and shook her head, ponytail bobbing.

"None, Captain. Detecting a standard distress beacon, but it's a standard colonial EPIDB signal. Pre-war tech from the looks of it."

"Not exactly Cole Protocol but still, it got us here. Give me a handle on time dilation."

Bakar's delicate nose wrinkled as she studied the transmission logs.

"Based on time stamps transmitted from Tether Two; three week transit time, just over month local, Captain."

"About as fast as we could have hoped. Weapons, Shields: are we online."

"Green on all fronts, Captain." That was Palermo, the senior munitions officer, "Weapons primed and fit to shine."

Captain Reade stepped forward to the command port; spine erect, her chin held high. She couldn't have asked for a better crew. Her eyes took in the planet beneath her.

"Outstanding, gentlemen. Take us closer."

* * *

The ChatterNet was an infinite ocean, a sea of endless data. Kaizen took to it like a dolphin plunging back into the surf, immersing herself in its rippling waves, coursing eddies and surging currents. She took to it as a thirsty man takes to fresh water, scooping it up and splashing it over her face. Guzzling it greedily, until her archives bulged and her skin pulsed with digital bliss. She gorged herself on the information.

The intel came to her; instant, faster than a blink. Faster than thought. Social networking messages, panicked local announcements, grainy time-stamped aerial footage fed from vid-drones transmitted by local news networks. All channels, all sources, all access; processed instantly and filed for mission logs. Riots in Victory Square. Tear gas and armoured police barricades across the capital city; Argjend. Blink-switch, next data-source. Situation reports, emergency announcements, direct combat feed from shaky helmet cams; roared orders and panicked screams. Stitching gunfire, crumbling masonry, oily palls of drifting smoke.

She surfaced. Blinked her eyes to clear her vision. Breathless, she emerged.

She fizzled into life on the holo-pedestal nestled by the captain's command table.

"Captain Reade, General Stape."

Both humans turned to look down at her. For a moment she resented them, the way they looked down at her. Like a data pad. To Reade, just another subordinate, a com-buoy, to be relied on for hard nav-data and little else. To Stape, just another tool; another weapon to give him an edge in a dirt-brawl: a hand grenade, an extra magazine, a blunt-edged entrenchment tool, narrowly within grasping distance. She saw the way they looked at her, used her, and hated them for it.

She banished the thoughts instantly. Being subsumed in the angry throes beamed from the local ChatterNet had infused her with the rampaging emotion pulsing out from the data-stream of the conflict-torn planet. She closed her eyes, purging her memory banks of the unnecessary feedback noise. Serenity restored itself. She shut her eyes, her expression serene. That was the path to Rampancy. That way madness lied.

Kaizen recovered. The process took less than a heartbeat. The humans still looked at her, and she saw their expression for what it was. Professional focus, mingled with expectation. That was better. She made her report.

"Sir, the capital is secure. Argjend still holds. Public order is maintained by martial law."

"Then what is it?" Stape asked, scowling. He's in the middle of coordinating a large scale troop deployment. Her interference is an unwelcome distraction. She looked up at him, meeting his gaze from her tiny place down upon the pedestal. He needed to here this.

"It's New Cadiz, Sir."

She blinked, icy calm now. She regarded the two humans openly. On the main monitor, she flipped on an image of torched Warthog. Lynched bodies turned in the air above it, suspended from a broken street lamp.

"The city burns."

* * *

In the armoury, Chimera made ready for war.

Damien clipped a series of ammo pouches around his waist, giving the gear a shake test. The planet was human colony, which meant provisions would be secondary. Survival needs could be scavenged on the ground. That prioritised ammunition, disposable weaponry. By their very nature, Spartans were a quick deployment strike force; in and out. The conventional forces, Army and Marines alike, could hold the real estate once the fighting was done. The simple water canteen on his belt sloshed as he clipped it around his waist. The Spartan frowned, quickly exchanging it for a full one. It wouldn't do to have his position revealed by such a simple oversight.

Damien prepped accordingly. The Spartan mag-bolted a MA5 Assault Rifle to the back of his armour. Synth-scales hardened with a smooth click as the suit provided a robust magnetic adhesive between the skin of the suit and the brushed chrome finish of the bullpup weapon. He pulled a BR-85 down from a weapon rack, pulling the charge handle, inspecting the weapon's ejection port for any blockages. He lined the weapon up, nestling the rifle against his faceplate. The VISR system auto-zoomed via the transmission chip in the rifle's scope. While the scope itself worked perfectly well to the naked eye, the VISR interface cleaned and light-enhanced the image shown; offering infrared, heat-tracking, even a mild target tracking capability.

The rest of Chimera followed suit, immersed in their own private rituals.

The initial emergency script piping out of the Granica System had been a general wideband distress call. Knee-jerk, reactionary. Anything could be going on down there; which meant they prepped for anything.

Rashid was picking his way over the heavier weapons, entirely undecided. He had a natural preference for the M6 Grindel; the so-called Spartan Laser, but initial reports mentioned marauding groups of untrained rebels; unfocused and ill-disciplined. He set it back on the rack, the weapon auto-folding into its inert shape as soon as he set it down.

"Try this." Luke suggested, tossing him what appeared to be sealed packing crate. "Magnetic Accelerator Rifle. Loads of fun."

Rashid turned it over in his hands, examining it as one would a fine bottle of wine. The weapon unfolded and snapped ready.

"Curious."

Luke just shook his head, a laugh emanating from behind his heavy faceplate. He clapped Rashid on the shoulder. "Just bring it with you, Rash. Trust me."

Damien caught a red reflection in the smooth steel of the armoury's weapon rack. Eric had materialised behind him, as silently unnerving as a lurking shark.

"Damien, a word."

"Sir." Damien stepped away from the others. They stood at the far end of the prep room, beyond earshot.

"You'll be heading in with the ground teams. Initial scans are coming in from the bridge. New Cadiz is a mess. Expect heavy resistance.

Eric folded his arms across his breastplate.

"A parting word of advice. I meant what I said on Laconia. You're ready for this. When you're down there, don't lose sight of the basics. Remember your strengths. It's not your Gen 2, it's not your weapon systems, and it's not your shield system. Creativity is Chimera's single defining strength. The best team leaders I've ever followed had the same natural ability; they knew how to react to circumstances; responding and adapting as required."

Eric's voice became low, a confiding tone, a private rasp full of conviction.

"Listen to your Spartans. Follow your instincts. Keep your head. Most importantly, bring your Spartans back alive - I don't need any more deaths on my conscience."

"We won't let you down, Sir." Damien nodded earnestly, his confidence clear even through the filtered helmet.

"I'm sure you won't, Spartan. Fight well."

Eric stepped back out into the corridor. Damien took a half-step after him.

"Sir, another thing."

Eric turned to look at him. The gold-slit visor regarded the younger Spartan carefully.

"Shoot."

"I wanted to thank you, Sir. For sticking up for us back on Laconia. For giving us this opportunity."

Eric waved Damien's comments away with an emphatic shake of his head.

"You won this opportunity by your own merits, Chimera One." the veteran growled, "Now all you have to do is take it."

With that the door hissed shut, leaving Damien alone with his thoughts.

Across the chamber, Viktorya hefted a rocket launcher, examining it under the spot lamps. She admired its raw destructive power. Luke looked over at her, his MA5 and under-slung grenade launcher looking decidedly civilised by comparison.

"Subtle, Vee. Real subtle."

"'Always outnumbered, never outgunned.'" Viktorya quoted brusquely, setting the launcher back on the prep table and turning her attention to the next auto-folding weapon rack. It hosted a gleaming array of combat knifes, each one glistening from the luminescent lighting strips topping the chamber's walls. She took three of them down, selecting them with a practiced eye and sliding them smoothly into different places on her combat webbing; one on the wrist, one on the ankle, another hidden away at the small of her back. Father had taught her well.

Luke looked over to where Chidinma was loading shells into a shotgun. Her helmet lay on the bench next to her, and she hummed to herself peacefully; a lilting, haunting melody. Strapped to her back was an anti-material rifle. He only barely noticed that her hand was shaking, ever so slightly.

Finally, he saw himself, reflected in the full-height mirror affixed to the end of the chamber. Head to toe Warrior Pattern Mjolnir, gun-metal grey, laden down with enough weaponry to smash an army. _Or level a city._

"Yeah, well... here's hoping." Luke muttered.

* * *

Kaizen had been right.

For the first two weeks of the uprising, New Cadiz had burned. Police stations had their windows burst inward, as Molotov cocktails were hurled through with snarled yells. The glass exploded in a rolling whoosh of heat and tinkling shrapnel. Pebbled shards littered the street, and crunched underfoot as the mob swept on, chanting slogans and waving banners. There was no time for martial law, no time to even blink and restore order. A resounding series of detonations rocked the foundations of the city. The night air was alive with car alarms, bleating and shrill; an angry cacophony.

Then the purges. As order collapsed, so too did any semblance of moral behaviour. UNSC sympathisers were set upon by the marauding crowds; men, women and children pulled from their homes and put to the wall. Rivalries came to the fore, with personal vendettas between citizens being settled in the most primitive, final way. Crimes – transgressions both real and imagined - were blamed on those unfortunate enough to get caught in the cross fire. By the third day of the revolution, a dozen small plumes of fire rose up into the morning air.

Those who knew better hid in their homes, locking the doors and sealing them tight. They cowered in their bathrooms, hoping against hope that that fateful knock would never come, that tramping boots would not drag them shrieking from their homes. Those who knew better kept to themselves, stockpiling their meagre supplies and sure of only one thing: this was only the beginning.

It proved a testament to the widespread nature of the unrest that only the United Liberation Front proved to be the only ones capable of restoring order. They quelled the riots order in a manner far more brutal than any UNSC crackdown could.

A smoke grenade here, a volley of .50 calibre gunfire there. Their gunmen rattled down the street in heavy agri-jeeps, or sped by in crudely customised open-top technicals. Red streamers whipped in the wind behind them, revolutionary ribbons declaring their open allegiance to the spreading insurgency. Thump metal blared out of speaker systems. The rap was harsh, guttural, savagely seductive. Children ran in their wake, oblivious to the broken bodies strewn in the gutters, heedless of the broken water mains and cracked sewers, which pooled across the street, filling the air with a savage, mutinous stink.

The rebels themselves were cocksure and exuded an air of raw aggression. Bulging arms were exposed, glistening with sweat. Steely jaws hid behind jutting jaws and mirrored sunshades. These were young men high on the purest drug of all: war. They obscured their faces behind crude respirator masks, mining visors and bulbous dust-goggles, their heads either shaved raw or dangling down in ragged braids. Only a select few within the mob hinted at an underlying organisation; the ones with military grade hardware and tattoos speaking of a more fanatical allegiance. They fed the chaos, whipping the rioters into frenzy; unnoticed amidst the churning crowds. Their malign presence within the city would not become apparent until later.

The result of uprising was inevitable. Over the weeks following the initial outbreak of violence, the moderate elements of the populace fled the city in droves. Orbital scans showed large roving worm-like patterns growing out from the city. Investigatory satellite magnification revealed these shapes to be massive convoys of people. Those who could not afford transport, or indeed had their transport stolen from them, took to the eastern roads on their own two feet, with little more than the few possessions they could carry. The nearest settlement was some 150 km south of New Cadiz, a small dust-choked watering hole by the name of New Perth. Many would not live to see it. The sun high above showed them little mercy, and thousands would die of exposure in the coming weeks.

Pitiless and cruel, it marked the beginning of the single largest humanitarian crisis the planet had ever seen in its short, innocent history.

It must be said that the UEG were not idle during this time. While direct military intervention in New Cadiz was deemed impossible in the short term, given the scale of the fighting, relief checkpoints were prepped at intervals along the I-79, the principal highway leading in from the southern wasteland. The crowds overwhelmed them; descending upon them with slapping feet red-raw from the punishing trek. That many in the crowd were insurrectionist sympathisers did little to help matters. By the time the third suicide bomb had been detonated at a UNSC relief post, the decision was taken to abort direct relief efforts, and instead simply air drop relief materials into the wasteland. Naturally, the vast bulk of these supplies - water, basic tents, and medical supplies - were scooped up by United Liberation Front scout teams, operating out in the desert on long range dune buggies and custom-converted technicals.

The rebels brought the looted goods back to New Cadiz, where - deprived of the more moderate elements of the population, lean and hungry - the city began to prepare itself, priming itself for a war that was sure to follow.

And follow it did.

* * *

Chimera tramped along the metal gangway, keeping their heads bowed to avoid banging their helmets against the low-hanging ceiling alcoves. The drop bay formed part of the skeletal underbelly of the _Carpathia_; a narrow walkway bracketed on either side by sealed doorways lining the bulkhead. Each doorway was a drop-pod, and each drop-pod was empty. They awaited their armoured cargo like yawning mouths, hungry and open; waiting to entomb their human cargo.

Filing along behind Chimera were the impassively armoured members of the Royal 22 Commando. Though scarcely above chest height on Damien, the Special Forces troopers made for an impressive sight, clad as they were in polarised silver visors and slope-backed Type-B Air Assault Pattern helmets. They took their assigned places, trading backslaps and words of encouragement; their parting jokes rendered strange by the voice filters of their helmets. They stowed their weapons with a no-nonsense attitude borne from years of experience.

Viktorya clambered into the first pod without complaint. Chidinma and Luke did likewise. Rashid paused for a moment, dithering in the doorway. Damien clapped him on the back.

"Relax, Rash, it'll be fine."

"Have you read the specs on these things, One?" Rashid countered.

"I have. And have you run the simulations, Four?"

"Of course I have. Dozens of times. You were there with me."

"Then you know there's nothing to be worried about." Damien gave him a hearty slap on the back. "Up and at 'em, Four."

Rashid's grumbles were drowned out by the hissing rush of the descending blast door. Damien took one last look back up the red-lit corridor. Bar two techs double checking the pressure seal of each pod at the far end of the drop bay, the rest of the assault crew had loaded up. In the hangar, a half dozen armoured units would be similarly prepared.

Damien stowed his BR-85 in the side clamp, but kept the MA5 in his hands. He'd want a high rate of fire the second they kissed dirt.

He turned around and stepped back into the pod, pulling the restraint clamp down over his shoulders. They clicked tight as they sealed around the armour, the torso bracket auto-adjusting to accommodate the bulk of his Gen2 armour. Then the blast door descended with an industrial whirr, clacking shut. There was a rubberised squeal as pressure clamps sucked tight.

"All pods sealed and primed." a tech's voice clipped over the deck-band.

"Chimera, status."

Four green lights answered him.

"One, this if Four; that's a green light by technicality More specifically: I feel like throwing up."

"Noted Four. Try your best to swallow it. Now clear the channel; orders coming through."

Something unseen jolted, and the slid pod backward. There was a hydraulic whirr as the pod shuddered in its prep-tube, its angle shifting. The view out the narrow viewport tilted back, obscuring the view of the bay's gantry corridor. Adjusting exit vector, prepping trajectory. With a final clank, the pod settled into place, primed to launch.

Damien rested the back of his helmet against the cushioned padding of the headrest, his breathing controlled, measured. Even so, locked there in the drop-pod, he became aware of how utterly helpless he was. His heart hammered against his ribs; an industrial jack-hammer. Rashid had been right: doing this for real felt very different. Inches beneath his feet was cold, hard vacuum, burning atmosphere. A civil war in full, savage swing. Every fibre in his augmented frame tensed, braced for combat. Pupils became pinpricks. Adrenaline coursed through his veins; surging liquid power, priming him for combat. Tense as he was, he felt monstrously alive.

Spartans do not experience fear. With mechanical professionalism, he took in the instrumentation. It matched the layout of the simulated pods they'd trained in time and time again. Twinned attitude adjustment levers, with triggers controlling the thrust dispersal lining the Drop Pod's outer skin. They were inert in his hands as he gripped them. The initial launch sequence was automated, in order to prevent potentially fatal launch collisions. Full control would not come into effect until he was halfway to dirt-side.

Inset into the centre of the display was a topographical overview of the pre-programmed drop zone. It depicted an open clearing south of New Cadiz; a wide expanse overlooked by the central highway, I-79. The highway sloped down a shallow incline leading into the city, narrowing significantly as it waded into the clustered worker housing which defined much of the southern expanse.

Kaizen's voice filled his helmet, her briefing accompanied by a panning overview of the city's southern highway. Mortar fire had peppered the asphalt with slapdash patches of smouldering craters. It resembled the surface of the moon, or acne scarred flesh. Palls of gun smoke drifted over the city, a wafting smog of cordite.

"Orbital scans show increased combat activity levels along the I-79, a principal arterial route feeding into New Cadiz. Combined elements from the 325th Airborne and 12th Armoured Division have attempted to retake the city. Their convoy is bogged down in the outer suburbs, and requesting immediate assistance from any available UNSC forces."

The map display shifted to direct video feed. Closer down now. Some kind of hull-cam from a sub-atmospheric drone. It was a mess. Coils of oil-black smoke wrinkled the sky, twisting in the morning wind. A motorcade pierced the southern belly of the city, fully a kilometre long; machines of all sizes and specification. The head of the convoy was alight. Tracer fire whickered in from the streets, the adjoining alleys, countless small windows. Hundreds of insurgents swamped the rooftops, churning heat-blurs thrown up by the _Carpathia's_ orbital scans.

Damien reached up and touched the transmit button on the drop-pods control dash.

"Sir, Chimera will take it. Request permission to secure the convoy and provide direct assistance."

Up on the bridge, Eric and Stape exchanged a look. Stape regarded the impassive Spartan steadily, his rheumy eyes unblinking.

"239, you're the ranking Spartan. Additional armoured support may be some time. It's your call."

Eric studied the map through his golden visor; watched the friendly IFF tags being swarmed on all sides by hostile OPFOR markers. The Rangers were presently outnumbered five to one. Further hostile contacts were streaming in toward the flashpoint, like blood cells swarming to a healing wound.

A drastic situation, demanding a drastic response.

Eric nodded once.

"Put 'em in."


	21. XVII: Landfall

_"New Cadiz? There's an _old_ one?"_

- Spartan Luke Grey, upon receipt of the briefing file.

* * *

The campaign began in earnest on a Tuesday morning, April 3rd, 2557. Conditions were bright and clear; the mood of the men optimistic.

Governmental forces set down at 09:00 Zulu Time, ostensibly to 'restore civic order, protect UEG interests and maintain the rule of law'. The designated military target was Orbital Two, the towering mass transit elevator which dominated the New Cadiz skyline. As one of the largest pieces of infrastructure on Granica V, it represented a key strategic asset, not to mention a significant material investment on the part of the UEG. Orbital Two was one of two orbital transit points on the planet. In terms of global infrastructure, crucial; for a fledgling colony, essential. Restoring it to UEG control was vital.

Three armoured columns deployed from Camp Issus, a temporary deployment zone erected in the Southern Badlands. Regimental Combat Teams Alpha, Bravo and Charlie; each R.C.T. comprised some two thousand service personnel, a rumbling line of M12LRV's, trundling M63 "Armadillo" Pattern Armoured Personnel Carriers and towering M312 Recovery Vehicles, dubbed "The Elephant" for the dirge-drone of its horn and its trunk-like lift crane.

The M312's would be responsible for repairing essential parts of the city: clearing rubble, repairing or indeed replacing collapsed bridges. The city was divided into three major islands, split by the Hydaspes River; the single largest water supply within the dirt-choked region. Their inclusion, and the efforts of the combat engineers manning them, would prove invaluable in the days ahead.

The bulk of the R.C.T.'s soldiery were comprised of locally sourced UEG Loyalist militia; colonial reservists that had since been activated with the outbreak of fighting on Granica V. Reinforcing them (and providing badly needed field experience) were specialist UNSC Army Rangers and selected elements from 3rd Battalion 4th Marines, the infamous "Thundering Third". True to their word, the Rangers led the way as part of R.C.T. Alpha, with the Marine elements forming the bulk of R.C.T. Charlie, who were on an approach to the city from the eastern border.

The convoys threw up great plumes of dust, visible from miles around. This gave the defending insurgency ample notice. Roads were blocked, packed with torn mattresses, smashed furniture; upturned cars and heaps of burning tires. The smoke rose into the air: oily, black and malevolent.

New Cadiz. Five million citizens, almost a third of which were actively participating in open rebellion. The rest had wisely fled. A sprawling city of white-brushed stone, sandcrete domes and skeletal mining derricks. Much of the city was still under construction, a sign of its rapid expansion in the post-war settlement drive. A jungle of half-finished construction; of rickety scaffolding, timber duckboards and fenced off quarries. Spindly steel joists glinted in the morning sun, exposed. They pointed up at the sky above, accusing it with skeletal fingers. A city frozen in time, any hope of future development stopped in its tracks by the outbreak of war.

New Cadiz, a city of narrow windows, tight streets and meandering rows of a thousand tiny houses. An infantry man's worst nightmare.

And to those invading: a bear trap, waiting to close.

* * *

Small arms fire dented plated bodywork and skipped off hard asphalt. Tufts of sandy grit stitched across the crude dirt paths bracketing either side of the street, funnelling against the walls of the street in deadly arcs. First Sergeant Frank Merrill scrambled to his feet, snatching up his helmet groggily. Sand poured out of it as he clamped it back on, jaw flexing as he hastily tugged at the chin straps. His vision swam, his skull pounded. The com feed was panicked noise. Collected contact reports had given way to shouted commands, startled cries. Alpha's command vehicle had been scorched. The motion indicator in the eye-lens of Merrill's helmet was cracked, inoperable; but sheer weight of enemy fire arcing down from the adjoining rooftops told him enough. They needed to get off this street.

Merrill had been in a Transport 'Hog that had once been dressed in the proud tan livery of the Granican Civil Defence Force, the planet's locally sourced militia. No longer. Now it was a smouldering ruin, courtesy of an IED that had flipped the vehicle and pitched its human cargo sprawling to the deck like discarded rag dolls. Most of those same Rangers were now KIA; their bodies littered the street. The convoy behind them had screeched to a halt, hemmed in by the burning wreckage. Merrill had been in formation immediately behind Colonel Williams' command vehicle, a compact and muscular Armadillo assault vehicle. That too was a blackened wreck. Its armoured skin was breached in three places, as it vented fiery smoke.

Three Rangers darted forward, flinching as hard rounds pinged off the metal around them. Levine, Binkowski, Riley. Levine and Binkowski were veterans both, solid fighters in any pinch. Riley was newer, unproven, but Airborne nonetheless. All three of them looked at him expectantly, staying collected where other men would break altogether.

"Levine, sit-rep!" Merrill shouted over the din, "Where's Weinberg?!"

Levine shook his head vehemently.

"LT's down, Sarge!"

"Wounded?"

Levine shook his gravely. That told Frank Merrill all he needed to know.

He was now in the unenviable position of being in direct command.

_Well fuck me sideways_, the bull-necked veteran thought grimly.

The remnants of the 325th, some sixty Rangers all told, hunkered down amidst the burning motorcade, beset on all sides by ambushing insurgents. Mortar fire _phunked_ in, wild and inaccurate, but adjusting incrementally; creeping ever closer. The Rangers were throwing down an impressive amount of suppressive fire, but the Innies had elevation, solid cover and, above all, superior numbers.

Denial-by-fire was costly from an ammunition standpoint, and although that concerned Merrill, in the scheme of things it was decidedly irrelevant. If they stayed here they were dead anyway.

Merrill glanced over at the building on his left; a squat three storey structure, with stucco covered walls becoming increasingly pockmarked with bullet holes. The building stood out in that it was stocky but sturdy; one of the few standalone structures on the street: a landmark for the local community, and right now the only possible sanctuary available.

_South Municipal Elementary_, the faded sign above the door read. Public schooling, state funded for the benefit of front-line mining families. The same kind of downtrodden community centre Merrill himself had grown up in.

Stranded out in the open with little more than hissing tracer fire for company, it looked as welcoming as a 5-star hotel.

He opened the com channel, waving his troopers down from their stricken vehicles.

"Rangers, with me! Clear the street!"

There came another high pitched hiss-sneeze of an RPG. Another Warthog was lifted into the air behind Merrill; a volcanic eruption of burning wheels and tumbling debris. Screams too. Merrill didn't need any further motivation. He got up and ran; a full bodied sprint. His MA5 banged mercilessly against his hip as it fell loose on the strap. Small arms fire ripped up the pavement around him. He felt the searing hiss of hard rounds arc in toward him; literally missing by inches.

The door ahead was wooden, an aesthetic touch and an extravagant one given the low-rent nature of the area. There wasn't any time to breach it properly. There wasn't even enough time to even open it. Merrill simply dropped his shoulder and hit it at speed. Two hundred pounds of body armour, equipment and solid Army muscle; hastily encouraged by snapping bullets that pinged at his feet. Dry timber exploded inward in a cloudburst of splinters. He collapsed forward into the room.

Three Insurrectionists stared down at him dumbly. One was prepping a bi-pod mounted machine gun, the barrel pointed toward the ceiling. Ammo panniers had been heaped hastily on a teacher's desk. The other two were mid-loading another rocket tube, a shocked expression on their faces. Merrill lay on the floor, in a pile of sawdust. In his shock, time slowed to a crawl. His brain processed the oddest things. It was a classroom. Crayons littered the floor like spent shell casings. The Innies did nothing, frozen in place. They were as surprised as Merrill was.

The other Rangers powered in behind him, weapons blazing as they stormed the threshold. Storm-clearance was their specialty. MA5 fire crackled and muzzle flashes strobed in the murky din. The insurgents were smashed backward, bodies jerking as they crashed down out of sight. The tiled wall behind them became a ruin of broken panes, shredded plaster and spattered blood. Dust filled the air. Laminated multiplication tables and crudely crayoned artwork had been shredded by gunfire. Now the floor really was littered in shell casings.

"Clear!" Binkowski barked, stepping over Merrill and surging forward to the next doorway. Levine and Riley followed him, roving forward, weapons primed. A half-dozen Rangers poured into the building after them.

And so it went. Room by room, corridor by bloody corridor. Flashbangs and furious exchanges of muffled gunfire sounded the way ahead. Clearance reports, calmly sounded over the tinny com-line, stood in sharp contrast to the scorched walls and broken bodies that followed in their wake.

Down on the ground floor, Merrill organised his men as best he could. One of the dead Innies was unceremoniously hauled off the teacher's desk, tossed aside like a sack of flour. A heavy coms unit was dumped in his place. Miraculously, the caster-pod hadn't been holed by incoming fire.

With orbital coms re-established,, Merrill's tactical training took over.

SAW gunners to the upper windows overlooking the devastated convoy. Marksmen to the rooftop. Each Ranger took a corner, watching their assigned sectors and calling their targets as they engaged. The severely wounded were stored at the base of the stairs, the structurally strongest part of the building. Bio-foam was administered where it was needed most, with gauzing and bandages used to seal in the gel-fused injuries. Many of the Rangers chose to do without, too focused on the task at hand. The majority of them were walking wounded. Orders were given to conserve ammunition at all costs.

The rebels showed no such restraint. They flooded in from a dozen side streets, converging on the Ranger's consolidated position. The crowd's blood was up, and the smoky fire in the air only stoked their thirst for violence. Emboldened by overwhelming numbers, they charged forward, hoping to swarm the schoolhouse. They paid for their eagerness dearly. Dozens were chopped from their feet by disciplined, superior marksmanship. The remaining crowd shrank back, like a wild animal flinching from the scalding touch of a fiery torch. The fallen were left out in the empty street, left to rot. Their bodies would remain there for a full week after the conflict; bloating and stinking in the rising heat.

The rest of the convoy, comprising mechanised infantry from the 12th Armoured Division, and relatively inexperienced reservists drawn up from the Colonial Reserve continued to idle on the choked roadway. They were soon cut-off by the ravenous mob. They reversed up the highway, driven back by woefully inaccurate RPG fire and thrown stones.

This left the Rangers effectively stranded in a sea of hostiles.

The more organised elements of the insurgency soon made themselves apparent. Positions were taken on adjoining sections of the surrounding neighbourhood, many of which overlooked the diminutive schoolhouse. The rebels brought up heavy weapons; mounted machine guns, sacks of clinking RPGs and heavier storm grenades. They occupied scaffolding overlooking the open roadway, prepping their weapon systems and dragging up rattling belts of ammunition. The sleet of incoming fire thickened, a blizzard of lead that snapped and bit at the exposed openings and kept the Rangers pinned, prone on the floor. The floor crunched with pebbles of broken glass. Plaster smoked from the walls in churning palls of dust that stung the eyes and tickled the back of the throat.

Stick grenades, crude homemade explosives poorly thrown, bounced off window ledges and tumbled back to the street below. Cloudbursts of shrapnel rang out against the stonework. One grenade actually sailed clean through the window, falling neatly between Binkowski's legs. He yelped, snatching it up and dropped it back out the window. He snatched his hand back as it exploded. Molotovs crashed against the walls, the flames licking up against the walls in blackened tongues of whooshing fire. The Rangers doggedly returned fire, snatching shots over the lips of the windows, but the crowds crept ever closer, slinking up to nearby street corners and spraying up at the besieged schoolhouse indiscriminately. Too many, there were simply too many.

Little by little, the Ranger's defence began to falter.

Levine was the first to go down. A ricocheting round spanked off the ceiling, slicing deep across his cheek. He tumbled back from his window perch with a curse, one hand pressed against his face to stymie the bleeding. Higgins, one of the SAW gunners from third platoon, abruptly slumped forward, his neck punctured.

One by one, the Rangers fell back from the upper windows altogether. The sills deteriorated into stone chippings, as though the edges of the building were being worn away by a thousand nipping chisels. Uncontested, the crowds grew bolder. They surged in around the entry points of the ground floor, only held back by hastily thrown grenades and frantic bursts of discouraging fire. One ambitious rebel tried to leap through the threshold Merrill had originally entered, and was promptly shredded for his troubles.

The Rangers fell back upstairs, surrendering the ground floor. They dragged their groaning wounded with them. Trails of slick blood matted the timber steps, even as enemy fire chased them deeper and higher into the structure. The ground floor was entirely lost.

"Where's our goddamn support!" Merrill shouted over his shoulder, priming a grenade and dropping it over the edge of the stairway. It tumbled down, skipping off the steps and rolling into the ground floor. A muffled burst of shrapnel killed a score of Innies below.

"Inbound Sir!" Riley stammered, eyes wide as saucers. He'd taken over tech duties. Specialist Sekovanic was unconscious, an arcing piece of shrapnel having embedded itself in his temple.

"Inbound won't do us much good if we're all dead by the time it arrives." Merrill snarled, as he snatched the com paddle from Riley's hands. "This is Bravo Actual to Control! We are being overrun! Requesting immediate assistance on this position - situation critical!"

"Standby Bravo Actual, specialist support is inbound." a woman's coolly modulated voice soothed. "ETA Three minutes."

Something hit the roof. The entire foundations of the building trembled. Slivers of broken glass rattled in the window frames. Dust sifted down from the ceiling. Mortar fire. The rebels had their position zeroed, friendly fire be damned.

"Make it fast, Control! We don't have three minutes!"

* * *

_Sixty seconds to insertion._

_Insertion_, a wicked voice at the back of Damien's thought, his every fibre shaking, _what a delicate way to put it_.

The drop pod rocketed downward, shaking free of the atmo-burn, its metal edges tinged red from the roasting heat. The pod vibrated crazily, threatening to shake itself apart at any moment. Beside and above him, thirty drop pods glowed amber in the mid-morning sky. Straight edged vapour trails marked their plunging descent toward the sprawling earth below. The city of New Cadiz swelled up in the view port below him. Swallowing them.

_Thirty seconds._

Damien tapped a series of commands into the nav computer.

Twenty five of the pods were heading for the intended drop zone, at the rear of convoy. There were certain guidelines to hard-contact drops; certain protocols to observe. Damien ignored them all, tapping in the final sequence of his command stream.

Five pods broke free of the shoal.

Their target: a hapless schoolhouse encroached on all sides by a thousand swarming red contacts. A waypoint blossomed over it, cheerful and green, pin-pointing the objective to the members of Chimera.

_Ten seconds._

Re-entry vents hissed, counter impulse drives flared and the arresting sail popped out as the pod screeched downward. The building he was aiming for was opposite the school house. Two storeys. A tannery, or a baker's hall perhaps. There was no time to -

_Five._

A bone jolting impact. The pod went clean through the roof. Through bitumen and insulation padding, through wire circuitry and polymetal sheeting. Through screaming flesh and splintering bone. Slamming down like the fist of an angry god, a Sword of Damocles. Bringing with it its own god of war.

The explosive bolts in the pod blasted open with a declaratory, almost triumphant ping.

Damien leapt out, MA5 thundering.

After ten years of constant training, Chimera was finally unleashed.

* * *

The sheeting waves of incoming fire stopped. Instantly.

It was like somebody had turned off a tap. One moment, the schoolhouse was being bombarded from a hundred different directions, the next it was left entirely alone; ignored to the point of absurdity. And yet the streets outside were alive with shrieks of terror from the crowd. And constant rattling gunfire.

Something else had monopolised the rebels' attention.

Merrill looked over at Binkowski. Binkowski shrugged and looked over at Levine. Levine listened to the roars of terror outside, the clattering of machine guns. An explosion rang out.

"What the hell is that?!" Levine hissed.

Viktorya raced toward the building ahead, feet barely slapping the ground beneath her. Two storey structure ahead, multiple radar contacts. All hostile.

The ground floor was heavily crowded. Gun crews and wounded insurgents, hunkering down as they put down fire on the beleaguered schoolhouse. An AT crew were hunkered down on the rooftop. Time was short. Tactical instinct suggested increased elevation.

Viktorya didn't hesitate. As she sprinted, a knife appeared in her hand. She leapt, one foot bracing off the wall, her hand thumping the knife into the smooth stone with all the penetrating force of a jackhammer. Cat-like agility and brute strength, working in equal measure. She hauled herself up into the upper window, propelling herself into the room in a single flowing roll.

They didn't even here her coming, the fools. Three males with their backs turned, lacking IFF ident-chips and toting surplus UNSC gear; likely stolen. Not that it mattered. Viktorya killed them all, never even bothering to draw her gun. A slashed throat here, an arm-twist there, followed by a throat-crushing open palm strike. She simply plucked the RPG from the last gibbering insurgent's hands and casually hurled him out the window. She emptied the RPG into the baying crowd for a good measure, before tossing it aside.

VISR scans indicated a weakened portion in the creaking floorboards beneath her feet. Beyond that, heat signatures, looking upward, panicked. She jumped on to the crack in the floor, planting both feet squarely. A thundering detonation of cascading wood and swirling sawdust brought her down to ground floor level. Fifteen shell-shocked Innies gaped at her in horror. Now there were two knives in her hands.

Viktorya smiled.

_This was combat. This was real, proper combat._

The thoughts raced through Chidinma's head as she sighted the anti-material rifle and fired once more. She felt that meaty smack of the stock against her shoulder. The gun was made for stopping vehicles; piercing armoured plating and shambling Hunters. Unsupported, the mule kick of the recoil alone would have broken any normal human's collarbone. The rifle's effect on soft targets was somewhat overstated.

A mist of blood painted a wall across the street, as though somebody had up-ended a bucket of dyed water. Another machine gun post fell silent.

Chidinma was perched high on the lip of a water-tower. It gave her an excellent view, which she put to good use. She re-sighted and fired again, calling targets over the inter-squad channel.

All the while, she felt at peace. Every shot rang true. She racked the bolt as she slapped a new magazine home.

Her hands were rock steady.

* * *

The convoy further down the street were being mobbed.

The hordes swarmed over the lead Armadillo's windshield. Beating at it with rocks, smashing at the plated glass with the butts of their rifles. Spider webbing cracks blossomed across it, threatening to give way any moment. Somebody was banging on the access hatch overhead. The Civil Defence troopers within the APC cowered, knuckles white on the dash. Suddenly there was a juddering blitz of machine gun fire. Blood spattered the view, obscuring everything.

The banging on the hatch ceased.

An armoured figure strode by, boldly walking out into the middle of the rapidly emptying street. A chattering SAW juddered in the giant's hands, as he casually unloaded from the hip. Fleeing bodies jinked and danced as they were caught in the storm of fire.

Ensconced behind his steel plating of his welder's helmet, Luke hummed to himself merrily.

Rashid appeared at his side, DMR spitting in angry barks. Kneeling down, he sighted carefully. Snipers tumbled from their perches, smashing down onto the broken roadway.

Together as one, the two Spartans advanced, driving the mob before them.

One by one, Innie machine gun nests fell abruptly silent. The interior of the buildings around them rang out with muffled gunfire. The fleeing crowds on the street looked back over their shoulders in panic. They heard bullets thumping into flesh, ripping clean through. The flash of something inside the windows of one of the adjoining buildings threw up brief glimpses of the terror that lurked within. A silhouette of a human, only the scale was all wrong.

Merrill rose to a half crouch, darting over the window and poking his head up over the frayed ledge. He saw for himself.

The rooftops around them were clear. There were no signs of what had come down almost literally upon their heads. Fallen rebels littered the adjoining rooftops; bodies maimed, severed, broken. A mist of gunfire clung to the air. Small fires crackled here and there. A hushed quiet draped the air. The stillness of it all only served to unnerve Merrill even more.

Merrill saw the gaping hole in the roof of the building opposite them; where something had hammered down with all the destructive subtlety of a meteor, smearing what had once been an Insurrectionist gun crew across the broken roof slats. There was the orange flash of heated gunfire exchanges from the ground floor of the structure. Point blank, without quarter or hesitation. Then the windows darkened. Silence returned once more.

The crowds had fled, leaving discarded weapons scattered in their wake. Abject terror has that effect on people. All the Rangers could hear were the panicked cries of the rebels lurking on the ground floor beneath their feet. Isolated, surrounded. The Rangers could smell their terror. Snatches of gunfire popped off as the Innies searched for the target stalking them.

"That's a drop strike." Merrill said at last.

Levine appeared at his side.

"Who the hell drops into a shit-fest like this?"

"ODST?" Riley asked.

"No way man," Binkowski shook his head, his jaw working frantically at a stick of Chum©, "That DZ's way too hot, even for them."

"There's limits to where they can drop." Levine agreed, his cheek still bleeding profusely, "Protocols."

They had their answer when they heard an explosion from downstairs. A breaching grenade; then gunfire, then hand to hand combat. Bones breaking, shrieks cut brutally short. The merciless hush resumed.

An ominous thumping footfall fell upon the bottom of the stairs. Floorboards groaned in protest.

The Rangers snatched up their weapons, taking firing positions, eyes wide.

The footsteps thumped louder, ascending.

A tank appeared at the top of the stairs. An honest to god human tank. Its armour was a deep blue, adorned with white vertical racing stripes. Wreathing gun smoke curled up from its armour plating. Its shields sizzled as they restored to full potency. Its opal visor regarded them calmly.

"Chimera One to Chimera Actual." the giant said, as it held one hand to the side of its helmet, "Convoy secure."


	22. XVIII: Consolidation and Intrigue

**Chapter 22: XVIII: Consolidation and Intrigue**

_"The terrain lended itself to hit and fade strikes, that's what I remembered. The streets were built tightly on top of one another, without a logical structure. Housing had been built on the fly, and the tactics required to survive had to be similarly adaptive. Command's first preference would have been orbital bombardment; to simply clear hotbeds of waiting ambushers with coordinated Hellfire missile strikes. We weren't sure if it was the proximity of civilians in the target area or the potential risk to Orbital Two; the word was given: we were to advance deeper into New Cadiz. _

_Rules of Engagement were clear: only fire if fired upon._

_I never thought I'd say it, but I missed fighting the Covenant. Things were simpler then."_

- PFC S. Hiciano, Third Platoon, Second Infantry, UNSC Marines, on street fighting in New Cadiz

* * *

Merrill stepped out onto the street, nostrils twitching from the stink of it all. The smell of cordite; of burnt flesh and voided bowels. A mortar shell had cracked open a sewer main, and a glistening film of foul grey water flooded the street. With the immediate danger gone and the adrenaline spike receding along with it, Merrill felt numb, deflated. His took another swig from his canteen, his throat raw and sore.

Free to proceed unmolested, the rest of the convoy had trundled forward, nudging past the burnt out wrecks with shrill squeals of scraping metal. The Rangers had assembled themselves in overwatch positions formerly occupied by the insurgents. They did their best to ignore the wanton butchery that had been unleashed. Reinforcing them, strong and silent, were the Spartans. Four more of them had materialised, each as towering and menacing as the next. One of them was high up on a sniper perch, the sun glinting off its purple armour. Two others stood out in the street, weapons silently panning over their murderous handiwork. With a start Merrill realised one of them - the one in the digital pattern desert pattern - was a woman. Only a slight different in height and a certain leanness in build set her apart.

Yet another giant, this one dressed in an industrial orange-silver armoured skin, prowled around at the far end of the street, picking over the bodies of the fallen.

_Spartans._ Merrill shook his head in disbelief. They had actually sent Spartans.

Merrill had never seen one before. He'd heard the stories, of course; had seen the propaganda videos the Section Three newscasts pumped out time and time again over the ChatterNet. Romantic vid-casts of stoic armoured figures silently mowing down hordes of mewling aliens, accompanied by heroic low angled camera shots and a stirring orchestral swell. He'd dismissed such stories at once; just another lie passed down from command to keep the ground pounders' spirits up. In many ways he was right: seeing their true potency unleashed on a baying mob of humans, lightly armoured and untrained, made for a considerably less idealistic viewing.

Merrill looked over at the carpet of broken bodies, torn apart by small arms fire, flayed by spearing shrapnel and burst by anti-material rounds. The street was a charnel house, an abattoir. To his surprise, he felt nothing. These were the people who had thrown rocks at him, spat at him, who had fired bullets and hurled grenades and thrown down AT fire from on high. _They would have done the same to him_, an ugly voice in his head sneered. _Worse, even_.

They had made their decision, and the Spartans had responded in ruthless kind.

Merrill's foot brushed against something. A discarded Ranger helmet. Its monocular lens was missing, and the side of the head-plating was smeared with an oily scorch. Merrill absently picked it up, turning it over in his hands. Rensen, the name stencilled over the front said. One of the enlisted men from Charlie Company. No longer. The nametag was rudely punctuated by a single bullet hole.

A shadow fell over him. Merrill looked up into the opal visor of the blue giant.

"First Sergeant," the giant's voice had a modulated rasp to it, courtesy of its helmet filter "We need to move. Are your men in a position to advance?"

Merrill looked back at the burning convoy,

"My Rangers got hit hard, Spartan. We're only fifty percent combat effective, with the rest either walking wounded or in immediate need of CASEVAC."

Merrill looked back from where they had come from. He was still unconsciously toying with the broken helmet in his hands.

"This was FUBAR from the moment we arrived, Sir. No roadblocks, no blockades. Just an empty road, waiting for us to barge right in. They wanted us to come in here and command led us right into their hands. If you hadn't shown up…" Merrill trailed off.

Damien looked over at the slumped, burning buildings where Innie heavy weapons teams had been rooted out by concerted grenade attacks. Embers and curling smoke still floated out from blackened windows.

"Mounted emplacements bracketing a centralised point of engagement. Elevated positions, with proximity charges designed to neutralise target mobility." the Spartan noted coldly. "A classic kill zone."

"Textbook." Merrill agreed, as he spat dusty phlegm onto the broken road. "The Covie War taught a lot of the wrong people all of the right tricks."

"It's what I would have done." Damien replied.

The Spartan took another look back at the mauled convoy, and then nodded, raising a hand to the side of his helmet.

"Chimera One to Carpathia Actual."

Eric's voice answered him.

"Go ahead, One."

"Ranger element is pretty shot up, Sir. This city is laced with ambush points. Professional level stuff – you'll see it on the Tac-Feed. We can move, but it's going to be slow going. R.C.T. Bravo are going to need time to regroup."

Damien was drag-marking waypoints onto his Tac-Pad.

"Request permission to take Chimera ahead of the main force and neutralise any further ambush points along the route; establish a common line with R.C.T. Charlie, due east of our position."

"Do it, 451, but be advised; orbital scans are showing multiple hostiles consolidating two klicks due north of your position. Expect heavy resistance."

"Solid copy, Carpathia Actual. We'll take care of it, Chimera out."

Damien looked back at Merrill.

"Secure this area. Evac your wounded, and keep the reservists on side. They'll look to your Rangers for guidance. We'll forge ahead; spring any traps that need springing. Keep the home fires burning, and make sure we have a fall back point we can rely upon if things deteriorate. I'll send word once the coast is clear."

The Spartan turned to leave. Merrill stopped him.

"You're going deeper into the city?" there was no hiding the disbelief in Merrill's voice, "Alone?"

"I have four other Spartans with me, Sergeant." The Spartan cheerfully clapped Merrill on the shoulder, nearly bowling the sturdy Ranger off his feet, "I'm never alone."

* * *

Levine was trying to marshal the rest of the convoy up to the school house. Complications arose in the amount of debris cluttering the road. One crumpled Warthog in particular was causing problems. The M312 Recovery Vehicle didn't have enough room to ferry its way up beside the convoy, and the ground teams were having difficulty attaching a tow-hook to the wreckage, as it was currently ablaze. The field engineers shied away from the searing heat.

"Problem?" a filtered voice behind him said.

Levine turned around. He was staring at a steel coloured breastplate. Then he looked up.

The Spartan was a dark steel colour head to toe, with a golden slit of a visor hidden behind a protruding facemask that could only be likened to a welder's helmet. At 6'1, Levine was not a small man, but even so he only barely came up to the Spartan's chest height. Levine took a moment to speak, conscious of just how massively large the armoured killer was.

"Uh… the wreck?" Levine managed, pointing lamely over his shoulder. The flames crackled behind him.

"Want it moved?" The Spartan had already started past him. Levine followed, having to take two strides for every one of Luke's. Levine was holding the tow hook from another M12LRV in his hands.

"The fusion core lit off, we've been waiting for the flames to die down before we can-"

There was screech of metal as Luke wrenched the burning Warthog back onto its broken wheelbase. He pressed his shoulder against the scalding metal, shoving it, wrestling it. Within moments the abused wreck had been neatly shunted to the far side of the street, opening the way for the vehicles behind. The six man clearance team behind him looked on, dumb-founded. The tow hook in Levine's hands felt very useless all of a sudden.

"There." the Spartan said as he took a step back, dusting his gauntleted hands against each other with some satisfaction. His shield system glowed back to full strength with an electro-static hum.

The giant turned back to look at Levine.

"Anything else?" Luke asked brightly.

Levine numbly shook his head.

* * *

"One, a word."

Damien stood up from the huddled group of medics discussing evac plans. He looked over to where Rashid was, hunched over a neat line of bodies at the far end of the street.

"Go ahead, Rash."

"I think it's best you come and see for yourself, Sir."

Damien approached Rashid, who had laid out three relatively intact insurgent bodies to the side of the road. Each corpse had a shaved head, and was solidly built. Their glazed eyes stared up a bright blue sky they would never again see. Rashid was picking over them, prodding at them with a medical scanner he'd borrowed from one of the field medics.

Damien cocked his head to one side.

"I'm pretty sure they're dead, Rash."

"Noted, Sir. But take a closer look. They're different from the others. Most of crowd were insurgent sympathisers; rebels without form or focus. Crudely armed, primitively trained. But these men, they're something else."

Damien crouched down beside Rashid.

"Go on."

Rashid turned one of the bodies over. At the rear of the shaved skull was the insertion dock for a UNSC neural interface. The docking port had been cleanly excised and laser sutured. Only the faintest pink ribbon of scar tissue remained.

"What the hell…"

"Precisely my reaction. Those are neural lace plugs. They've been removed."

"Removed? Isn't that impossible?"

"Only with the most advanced and delicate surgery, Damien. _Expensive_ surgery, I might add." Rashid's singular target lens looked at him gravely, "These men are former UNSC service personnel. Trained soldiers, well-disciplined and highly skilled. Special Forces, were I to hazard a guess. Their ambush tactics would indicate as much."

"The Rangers thought the same thing. Force disposition was straight out of a FLEETCOM black-ops combat manual."

"And another thing. Notice the mark on their right hands, on the open-side of the wrist."

Damien pulled one of the corpse's hands. The skin was clean and smooth; unblemished.

"I don't see anything."

"Switch over to UV."

Damien blink-switched and his VISR cast the world in a luminous fluorescent blue. The mark appeared, black and ugly: a single black band, encircling the wrist. In its centre, a red hand, adorned with the wings of a UNSC eagle.

"A unit tattoo?"

"It bears ritual significance, certainly. Not a religious brand, not in this century, but perhaps something else. A political brotherhood, something subversive and unquestionably dangerous."

Rashid looked down at the body again. He let the dead man's hand fall back to the ground.

"I believe there may be something else going on here." Rashid's voice was grim, "Something we need to get a handle on, and quickly."

"I'll brief command." Damien rose to his feet.

"Already done, One. Kaizen is looking into it."

"Good job. Keep me posted - in the meantime, daylight's burning and we need to press the advantage. If you see any more of these guys, let me know."

Damien stepped over to the middle of the street.

"Chimera, on me."

The Spartans gathered in a loose circle. Damien looked at each of them in turn. Only confident visored helmets stared back at him.

"We've been cleared to advance along the I-79. R.C.T. Bravo will regroup and consolidate, advancing only when we give the all-clear. Our immediate objective is to clear a path to R.C.T. Charlie, who are advancing up the eastern canal, approaching the Cameroon Bridge. Connect the convoys, establish a common front. Groundside commanders dropped the ball on this one. It's our job to pick it up."

A waypoint blinked into life one klick east of their position.

"Vee, you're on point. Let's go to work."

* * *

Kaizen's eyes were white orbs. They stared at nothing, yet saw everything. Through gun cams affixed to Pelican dropships ferrying ground forces planet side, from orbital readers synched to the Carpathia's ground-quaking Point Defence Cannons, from news fliers and recon drones and local closed-circuit security lenses; even inbuilt cameras in discarded ChatterLinks. A thousand eyes generating a million thoughts, and all of them processed instantly.

The A.I. surfaced once more. She blinked, the data code resolving itself into a pair of deep, violet pupils once more. She looked up from the projection pedestal. General Stape looked down at her, awaiting a response. He was in a foul mood: ground command had committed the R.C.T.'s prematurely, without waiting for orbital backup.

With any tactical initiative squandered, the General was having to pull out all the stops just to stop the situation from deteriorating further.

"Ground targets, incoming on R.C.T. Charlie's position. They're looping around from the eastern badlands, hoping to assault the convoy from the rear."

"Force strength?"

"Thirty light vehicles; dune buggies and converted technical, with a number of looted Warthogs to boot. Visual feed was from orbital scans taken directly from the _Carpathia_, but I can confirm they are carrying light RPGs and anti-tank weaponry."

Eric folded his arms across his breastplate.

"A lightning raid, operating from one of the insurgent's desert camps." he said. "Chimera won't be able to get there in time."

"Trying to sting the convoy from behind. Smart." Stape conceded with a growl, "Nearest interception group?"

"The 31st/1st are on station in the immediate area, providing operational security to inserting ground teams."

"That'll do. Get me a com line to Kodiak One. It's time for our walker jockeys to stretch their legs."

* * *

"This is Kodiak One, reading you loud and clear, General. Orders received."

Stride Commander Kale "Wallaby" Williams grinned as he flexed his legs, glad to be finally doing something useful.

Kale reached past the post-pinup of a remarkably under-dressed girl overhead and flipped three switches. There was a reverberating shudder in the chassis around him. The photo-reactive camo-net masking him and his two fellow Stride members popped free of their holding clasps. The sheeting slid away. Three gleaming metallic green hulls glinted bright in the harsh light of the midday sun. He gripped the control yoke in his hands, nursing it backward. The fusion core cycled to life with a throb that shook his chair. The pilot cage rattled around him.

The Mantis Assault Walker rose up from its crouched position with a hydraulic hiss. The weapon systems unfurled from the central body frame, whirring as they clacked into the "ready position.". The muzzle-lock of the missile pod opened up, exposing the tips of the rockets to the open air. The M655 Anti-Material 20mm gun-pod micro-adjusted in its weapon sleeve, the cooling feeds green-lighting, the barrel mounted auto-sensors slaving themselves to the targeting monocle sitting over Kale's left eye.

Kale's Mark IX Mantis Pattern Armoured Defence System, nicknamed _All She Wrote_, stood just over twenty feet tall. A decorative stencil had been painted onto the side of the walker's snub-nose: a wallaby, its furry head stuffed under an oversized, rakishly tilted UNSC infantryman's helmet, an MA5 clutched enthusiastically in its diminutive paws. A well chewed cigar was jammed in its mouth. Capable of land speeds of up to sixty-five kilometres per hour, the Mantis was the Marines' go-to light attack vehicle in difficult terrain, offering a fire support platform capable of handling terrain threads simply couldn't manage. While strike drones granted the UNSC automated fire support from the air, the walkers were also an essential psychological tool. They instilled fear, and with good reason.

A Marine unit, Stride Team Kodiak was one of three Mantis teams operating on Granica V, and certainly the most experienced.

Now it was time for all that experience to lace up and put the boot in, as his instructors used to say.

"Systems powered and online. Stride is a go."

His Stride Wing rose up with him, thumping forward on lunging, hunting strides. Standard open atttack pattern. To the front and left was _Black Betty_, piloted by Kodiak Two, Sergeant Terry Jones; to his right, the _Midnight Cowboy_, piloted by Kodiak Three, Ross Currie.

"Radar signatures detected and marked for waypoint now, Stride Leader." Currie reported smoothly, his waypoint marker fixing itself on the tracking screen in front of Kale. As navigation officer for the Stride, Currie's Mantis had been outfitted with an additional uplink suite; a bulky radome that nestled on the back-right shoulder of his walker.

"Targets sighted, Stride Leader." Jones reported, his Mantis forging ahead. "Range, three thousand metres."

"Let 'em close, Two." Kale replied, switching his own view magnification to maximum. "Let's get some elevation on these guys."

The terrain ahead was a broken expanse of wasteland. Irrigation ditches marked the land in evenly places trenches, and the only landmark to be seen was a broken JOTUN or two; unlucky automatons that had drawn the ire of the marauding raiders. The city of New Cadiz rose up in the background, shimmering in the dizzying heat. A dozen plumes of smoke rose over the city, like burning oil wells.

Between the city and them was Circular I-42, an orbital road circumnavigating the entire city. It was along this stretch of open road that the targets were speeding now, keen to loop into the eastern part of the city and ambush the UNSC elements invading up the eastern branch of the Hydaspes River.

The walkers found their perch not far from the roadway, on a low hill overlooking the verge leading up to the road. _All She Wrote_ rocked back on her haunches, settling into a waiting stance. Kale rested his fingers on the trigger yokes, his targeting monocle sweeping over the highway. The weapon systems swivelled to track the movements of his helmet.

"Range, two thousand metres. Tracking." Currie reported, his own gun pods humming as they followed the train of the incoming convoy.

Amazingly, they hadn't noticed the three massive walkers lurking off the roadway. Too distracted by the fighting going on in the city, Kale reckoned. Had they simply turned their heads right instead of looking left at the city, they would have seen death waiting for them, perched on stilt-like legs.

"Let 'em close to eight hundred. Weapons free on my signal."

"Aye, Sir. One thousand metres."

"Sir?" Kodiak Three's voice cut in.

"Yes Three?"

"May I?"

A smile crossed Kale's lips.

"I think it's about time we gave them a traditional Kodiak welcome, Jones."

Terry Jones reached up to a special short-link he had in the bottom right of his control display. _Go Time_, the icon read. He tapped it with an enthusiastic finger.

Music blared from the P.A. system fixed into the under-snout of Black Betty's chassis. The system was meant for public broadcasts; crowd dispersal notices, intended for dissuading rioters. Kodiak abused it for an entirely different tradition. Music, as ancient as it was raucous, shrilled out, filling the still desert air. A cymbal crashed. Thumping drums, steady and stomping. A guitar riff, sounding out over the dunes. The members of Stride Team Kodiak had little to no idea which one of them had found the old song, nor did they particularly care to remember. After all, all three of them had been hammered drunk at the time. All they knew is that some traditions were worth keeping.

Ram Jam's _Black Betty_ was one of them.

_"Whoah, Black-Betty Bam-A-Lam! Whoah Black Betty Bam-A-Lam!"_

That was the only go-code Kodiak needed.

_All She Wrote_ stalked forward, weapons locking. The hostile convoy was thirty vehicles, all rag-tag converted civilian models for the most part. Less than a match for a single Mantis, let alone three. The vehicles heard the wafting music as they entered the kill zone. By then it was far too late. The target monocle in Kale's helmet pinged red. He squeezed the right hand bracket of the steering yoke.

The anti-material gun-pod licked out sheets of flame. The walker chassis shook from the vibration. The steering yoke buzzed in his hand, vibrating like an electric toothbrush. The lead vehicle was torn apart in a storm of automatic fire; the plating sheering away in metal puffs of peeling shrapnel. Kale loosed off two missiles for a good measure. A tumbling fireball blasted the third vehicle in the convoy away. Technicals swerved on their brakes, scattering in all directions from the mayhem. It didn't save them. _Black Betty_ sent a combined brace of rocket fire into the heart of their ranks. Fireballs and thunder split the roadway.

One technical swerved too close to Kodiak, hoping to scoot between them.. The Midnight Cowboy didn't even bother diverting its blazing gun pods from the murdered roadway.

A descending boot crunched through the roof of the vehicle, pulping the driver's cabin underfoot. Flames whooshed up from the exploding fuel core, licking harmlessly off the Cowboy's shield system.

"Nice touch, Currie."

"I aim to please, Stride Lead." Kodiak Two commed back breezily.

Decimation on an industrial scale: the raiders had equipped for a darting, probing ambush on a lumbering, trundling convoy, of flat-tracked APC's and hemmed in Warthogs. A lighting blitz by a trio of fully shielded assault walkers took them by storm. The song hadn't even finished playing by the time the raiders were pasted across the desert; the asphalt an ash-land of crackling flames and scattered debris.

Jones closed off his PA. The music died out, replaced by the stomping clank of armoured feet, the crackle of flames and the wailing cries of those unfortunate enough not to be murdered outright. One insurgent actually dragged himself to his feet, his skin all but peeling off. He advanced on All She Wrote, his MA5K Carbine spitting angrily. The bullets pinged off the chassis to little effect, absorbed by the shield array.

"Extra marks for enthusiasm, mate." Kodiak One muttered.

Kale casually pulped him with a trigger squeeze, and then dispassionately opened his com.

"Uh, Carpathia Actual, this is Stride Lead. Kodiak reports targets cleared and permission to proceed into the target area and support R.C.T. Charlie."

"Denied Kodiak actual. Specialist ground teams will lead the convoys in. They can take it from here. Strike Kodiak are to maintain a holding pattern outside the city and continue to provide operational security."

"Copy that, Carpathia Actual," Williams replied, suppressing a sigh, "Returning to Rally Point Indigo."

The three walkers reluctantly trudged back through the knee-high smoke, returning to their desert overlook point.

"Funny," snorted Jones, "I thought _we_ were the specialised ground teams."

Privately Kale Williams wondered the same thing. They had just eliminated an enemy raiding force fully ten times their number.

_What could possibly be scarier than us?_


	23. Chapter XIX: The Lion of New Cadiz

_"We'll have to contain this. Full blanket intercept: nothing gets transmitted in or out of the system without us knowing about it."_

_"That's a given. It's also a given that there's going to a be thousand one vids of this leaked all over the ChatterNet."_

_"As long as it's contained local to the system we'll be fine. "_

_"Fine? That's now how I'd describe it. An entire city's gone."_

_"A terrorist action."_

_"A grade-A cluster [expletive deleted] is what it is. Make no mistake: heads are going to roll for this." _

_"Not unless we get caught. Full blanket intercept. You've had this ship sweeped?"_

_"Of course, Sir, we're secure. No bugs, no traces. ONI couldn't touch us if they tried."_

_"Good, get it done. If they find out what happened here, we're all gonna burn."_

/Strictly EYES ONLY file_ .Net#file_designate-ARROWHEAD- [ONI Case File, retrieved 2561]/

* * *

"Alright people, let's go over it one more time."

The command staff were assembled on the _Carpathia's_ briefing deck in their entirety. Army, Navy, support specialists and logistics teams; repair units and communications specialists. Those planet-side were represented by three-quarter size hologram, with the shimmering representations of Fireteam Leaders of Platinum and Trident towering over them; giants both. Only Chimera were absent, represented instead by Kaizen, who stood quiet and serene despite the fact that she was currently focusing on a multitude of second to second battlefield oversight tasks. Fireteam Chimera's sigil rotated on the disc at her feet, a subtle reminder of her current assignment.

General Stape planted both hands on briefing controls, like a minister leaning over a pulpit. Above him, a slowly rotating image of New Cadiz floated in the air.

"As of 15:30 Zulu Time, the situation is as follows. The primary target and capital city, Argjend, is secure. Martial law has been established, and the situation is stable."

Stape looked up, expression haggard.

"New Cadiz is not. Ground side contact reports and orbital scans have confirmed hostile ground forces far exceed previous estimates. The city is in open insurgency, and I am elevating our combat response accordingly. We need to redraw the rule book."

"That means doing what local forces should have done in the first place. A concerted assault; ground and aerial, supported by directed artillery and drone strikes. Individual task assignments have been hot-piped to your neural laces. Don't be shy when availing of indirect fire. If it _looks_ like an Innie hole, _smells_ like an Innie hole and _acts_ like an Innie hole, then you know what to do. Call it in, let the drones do their work and plug it. Marines and Army personnel can hold the real estate once the dust settles."

"What about Orbital Two?" asked the hologram of Lieutenant Colonel Howard, the commanding officer of UNSC forces groundside, "We risk burying half the city if any of the support tethers come down."

Stape indicated the display above.

"Targeting solutions have been plotted to avoid areas deemed to bear a structural risk to Orbital Two. New Cadiz is - broadly speaking - broken into three concentric rings of settlement, separated by dried river beds and aqua-ducts; here, here and here."

Three wide rings settled over the rotating overlay of the city as Stape spoke.

"Aerial drone support can be provided as deep as the second tier. After that, it'll be down to the ground teams to do the heavy lifting. Mantis support has been authorised, and all Stride elements will move into position once we're ready to make the final push."

The briefing closed with a crisp salute. There was a clamour as the room rose to its feet in unison.

"Let's make it happen people. Our boys groundside are counting on us. Dismissed."

The deck cleared. Only the most senior command personnel remained, the two Spartans included.

"Well that's the official position, people, now can someone please explain how in the hell we landed in this mess?" Stape asked aloud, over the hush.

Nobody answered him.

"Resistance is stronger than anticipated, General." Kaizen said at last, her sentence illustrated by floating screens of helmet cam footage relayed from Chimera; strobe-flashed and frantic. The audio had been muted.

"Force disposition and tactical hardware matches known profiles from no less than sixteen separate radical organisations. Perhaps more alarming is their coordination. They have grouped themselves under a single banner: the ULF."

"They've had thirty years of mandatory UNSC Service to learn how to fight." Stape growled, scratching at his jowels, "Now they're using it against us."

"Respectfully I was more referring to their cohesion as a whole. Many of these identified groups are known to be mutually antagonistic. A single cohesive strategy between these groups is improbable, but under the circumstances self-evident."

The others present shuffled nervously.

"Sir, I repeat my request to be deployed into New Cadiz." Spartan Loic said quietly.

"I second Trident Leader's request." Chase nodded confidently, "Fireteam Platinum stand ready, General."

"Fireteam Platinum will remain exactly where I need them, which is in Argjend; making sure we don't wind up with a second cluster-fuck on our hands. Now if you've got anything else to add, by all means spit it out, Spartan."

Chase said nothing. Loic uploaded his tactical report with a series of keyed instructions into his TACPAD.

"We've secured as many surviving members of the local Senate as possible. Acting Governor Jennings is coordinating civilian relief efforts, but unless we do something about all the refugees flooding in from New Cadiz, we're going to be left with a major humanitarian crisis on our hands."

Even with his golden VISR, there was no hiding the scowl in Chase's voice.

"New Cadiz is in open rebellion." The white armoured Spartan scoffed, "We should focus on stamping the ULF out."

Loic stared over at his armoured counterpart pointedly.

"And if the ULF decide to smuggle in a bomb amongst them? Perhaps a landmine into a crowded plaza. Or a Havoc? They're a security risk, which makes them our concern." Loic shook his head and addressed Stape directly.

"Sir, we need to keep the local civilian government on side here. I appreciate the need to salvage the situation in New Cadiz, but if we lose public support, it's going to create more problems in the capital than it solves."

Stape mulled over this for a moment.

"Kaizen, you're the Smart A.I. here. What do you think?"

"Spartan Lambert is correct, General. Efforts should be made to retain local support, if at all possible."

"Very well. Divert some of our shuttle launches toward Argjend. Medical supplies, standard hum-rats and any medicine the local auto-manufactories can afford to spare. Liaise with friendly Army stores planet-side, see what you can rustle up. Work with Governer Jennings, do what you can."

"As you command, General." Kaizen bowed.

"Thank you, General." Loic added.

General Stape leaned over the briefing panel, to a point where his belly bulged against the rim of the projector. The harsh up-light underscored the sheer weight of responsibility resting on his shoulders.

"Something's not right. Even if our local commanders dropped the ball, three RCT's should have been more than enough to secure the city."

It was Eric's turn to speak.

"Somebody's organising them. Somebody smart, and with a lot more resources than we've given them credit for."

"Perhaps a more important question is why?" Kaizen said quietly, ticking off points on her glowing fingers, "Cadez is a backwater. Mining output is mediocre, relative to some of the orbital operations in the adjoining systems. Politically unimportant; strategically its only discernible value is Orbital Two, and even then if they wanted to establish independence, why not hit Argjend, and sever colonial control entirely?"

"Not to mention, why risk an open fight? Insurrectionists have always favoured asymmetrical warfare." Eric added, "Openly challenging the UNSC to a straight up fight? It's suicide."

"If it's a fight they want to pick, then I'm glad to give 'em one." Stape replied, fixing them all with a dangerous smile.

"Make no mistake, gentlemen; once Chimera secure RCT Charlie, we're not just going to consolidate. We're going to roll over these bastards, and roll them hard. If they want to turn New Cadiz into a war zone, then I'm happy to show them what war really means."

* * *

The average distance for a modern infantry engagement in the 26th century ranged dramatically based on a number of fundamental variables.

Location and historical context were key. In the Human Covenant War, distances were dramatically shorter than the brushfire wars that had preceded it; a by-product of the Covenant military's zealous honour system and lust for face to face combat. A fundamental error on the invaders' part: one that led to an unexpected, disastrous defeat at the final hour; snatch-stolen by the vagaries of fate and a single hero's courage.

Before this time, back during the original Insurrectionist War, and even in the cloying mists of the Rainforest Wars that came before, distances had been dramatically longer - ranging between two hundred metres to two hundred kilometres, depending on the circumstances, topography and optical capabilities of the combatants involved. Scopes, unmanned drones and long range sub-orbital bombardment meant that the enemy was often only seen with the naked eye once the fighting was done, and the kills were being confirmed in the settling dust; verified by clearance teams sifting through broken rooms, artillery shredded jungle and bombed out broken streets.

In the New Cadiz of 2557, caught up in the cramped confines of the side streets and adorned in the very latest in MJOLNIR technology, Chimera's firsthand experience became something rather more immediate.

Distances shortened.

Chimera burst into the next open square, darting into assault positions. They knelt behind burnt out cars, up-turned stalls and bellied down amongst strewn debris. Bullets snapped down from the buildings above them. Shields sparked and fizzled in protest. Chimera responded with interest, weapons moving from target to target with laser like precision. Luke's SAW rattled as it reduced concrete cover to jagged pebbles, its keening shrill punctuated by the thunderous boom of Chidinma's anti-material rifle. The juddering steady blurt of Damien's Battle Rifle stood out in contrast to the dry bark of Rashid's Battle Rifle. Men screamed in pain and terror as they died.

Something hiss-sneezed at them, and the world erupted in a plume of fire and dirt.

Damien snarled as he was thrown off his feet, his fall transitioning into a smooth roll. Pebbles tinkled against his armour as scorched sand poured over him. His VISR pulsed as it washed itself. Shield icons warbled in distress along the bottom of his HUD.

"RPG!" he bellowed, "Three, take it out!"

Chidinma's only response was to smoothly snap her rifle to bear and squeeze the trigger. A hapless insurgent, lurking on a parapet high above, burst from the waist up. The launcher spun as it clattered to the street below. Ever pragmatic, Rashid scooped up the discarded launch-tube from the ground and dumped its remaining rocket into the rebels' perch for a good measure.

The parapet shattered in a deluge of smothered fire and a cloudburst of cascading masonry. A flaming boot plopped down onto the dirt beside Rashid. A gnarled ankle bone jutted out, aflame like some gristly flag pole.

"Target down." Rashid clipped over the com.

Rashid looked over at Chidinma and shrugged his shoulders, tossing the spent rocket tube aside.

A hush descended once more, the only gunfire the distant pops and ominous rumbles from further afield. Damien held up an armoured hand, then waved twice. _Clear, advance._ Chimera rose to their feet, moving smoothly through the settling dust. Viktorya paused to crouch low over a gurgling insurgent, her knife biting deep. The agonised death-rattle ceased abruptly.

"You could have just shot him." Luke remarked, gingerly stepping over the broken body as he went to follow. Viktorya shook her head in irritation.

"Conserving ammunition." Viktorya replied, wiping the blade on her fore-arm as she rose to her feet.

"Chatter, Chimera." Damien scolded over the com, rifle scanning for targets.

Luke suppressed the urge to shudder as they moved on.

They advanced deeper into the city. Chimera's unit tactics differed in no way from any well drilled UNSC infantry team. It simply was a matter of scale and fluidity. They stuck to the back alleys and side streets, picking their battles carefully. Engaging every pocket of resistance was counter productive: they had an objective to get to. Ruthless as she was, Viktorya had a valid point: the longer they spent in the field, the more ammunition would become a priority.

The mission clock was running close to two hours. Ammunition reserves hovered at fifty percent, and the only prospect of re-arming infield was by getting to RCT Charlie, or requesting a direct orbital supply from _Carpathia_ itself, which carried its own risks.

When Chimera were left with little choice, they punched through some of the smaller buildings in the path to their objective. In this case, a sorry looking machine shop roughly a klick short of their objective. Weather-beaten, shuttered against the dusty wind; daubed in gaudy separatist graffiti. Its roof was a mushroom cluster of boxy air handling vents and cooling towers. Multiple points of entry. Multiple targets too, judging by the activity on Damien's sensor suite.

Damien drew close to the building, crouching cautiously. The sensor could be spoofed. Eric had taught them that in their first week. With the city's sanitation system fully inoperable for over a month, vermin were everywhere. Twice he had asked Kaizen to recalibrate his system to register max level bio-signs only. _Still, better to be safe than sorry._

A brief hand signal and Chimera formed up, stacking on a large wooden door secured by a rusted chain. Rashid took a position on the far side of the door, quietly snapping the chain with his hands. He slid his combat knife into the crack between the doors, levering it into the lock mechanism. Rashid held it there, and gave Damien a single nod, awaiting the command.

Damien flashed the go signal.

The door exploded outward, reduced to matchstick wood by a deluge of fire whickering out from the depths of the shop. Rashid flinched back, armour scarred and shields piping. Thick holes punctuated the butchered wood, which banged and shook on its fraught hinges. He looked back at Damien and shook his head.

_No good, they knew we were coming._

Storm-clearance was all about speed, communication. methodology. Basic drill-work: hit fast, strike hard. Ordinarily, Chimera would do as any UNSC fire team would: stacking on doorways, prefacing any assault with breaching charges and flash grenades, tearing ruthlessly through the dun smoke; checking corners and hugging the walls. Clearances would be called when all was done and the target structure reduced to a broken, empty shell of a building.

But the Insurrectionists had planned well. Each block of houses was tightly packed in on top of one another; compact miners' homes designed for shift-gangs flushed through on a temporary cycle. Prefabricated for the most part, though much of it had been dressed up in local stonework; a local affectation oft-repeated across the galaxy. The rebels used the cramped density to their advantage: knocking internal walls through from one house to another, turning a each block of a dozen houses into a single warren, a twisting inter-connected maze of short-cuts where insurgents could melt through and reform their attack from unexpected angles. Mouse-holes, the tunnels were called.

The sorry little machine shop was no different. The insurgents had levelled a bi-pod mounted machine gun at the doorway, aimed squarely at head height. It was a Felkannon .50 calibre support piece; a well maintained relic that had likely spent decades buried in a back room in some idealists' attic, and was only now being put to dangerous use.

In the ensuing battles to come, it was telling that the majority of UNSC fatalities recorded during the initial assault of New Cadiz were decapitations. Every doorway became a potential kill point; either booby trapped or used as a focal point for lurking ambushers. It would take days for UNSC ground forces to properly secure the city properly; weeks, even. Time Chimera simply did not have.

Damien did what was necessary. He glanced at the building once more, confirming his plan with a check of the TACPAD bolted onto his wrist. Kaizen pulled the specs on the structure from what little semblance of the local ChatterNet remained. A double height pitched roof, with light provided by auto-tinting skylights peeking out through the jumble of boxy air handling units. Two storeys; a harsh climb for a physically fit man, but little more than a running jump and a clamber for the average Spartan. Damien relayed his instructions via hand gestures.

One thing the Innies had not planned for was their attackers being Spartans. A conventional foe they could have resisted; stubbornly, until inevitable bombardment would dislodge them from their nests, likely annihilating most of the city in the process. Not so with the Spartans. They were military precision perfected, encased in almost impenetrable armour, and buffered by a robust shield system to boot.

This granted the Spartans a certain leeway in their approach to combat. A certain level of creativity was allowed for. A certain Flair, as Luke called it. A machine gun might damage a Spartan, even kill them with the right concentration of sustained fire. Damien had no intention of letting that happen. The insurgents had braced for a conventional assault, against conventional foes. They hunkered down by windows, trained machine guns on the doorway; watching all normal points of entry. In breathless panic, they hid behind the smoking barrel of the heavy bipod, sweat-soaked and terrified.

Acknowledgement lights went green on all fronts.

_Go._

Skylights burst in overhead and Chimera descended, weapons blazing.

* * *

Safely removed from the bloodshed on the muted hush of the Carpathia's bridge, Rebecca watched Chimera's vitals collectively spike as they tore an eastern trail across the city. She had killed the video feed shortly after landfall, choosing instead to monitor the heart rates and adrenaline readings on the tactical display. Even so, the audio feed was enough to make her palms sweat and stomach lurch.

Rebecca had quickly realised that she wasn't entirely cut out for this war business. Until now it had seemed like an adventure. Being whisked away to a top secret program on the very edge of human space. Told secret things, laden with import. Classified this, and classified that. It had all seemed tremendously exciting at first; romantic, almost.

She closed her eyes, screwing them shut, but the after images from the initial landfall remained, seared into her memory with all the soothing subtlety of a branding iron.

"Status, Doctor?" a filtered voice said behind her.

Rebecca jumped. Eric had an unfortunate habit of appearing out of nowhere; an impressive feat for an eight foot death machine. Rebecca sighed and peeled off her headset, settling it around her neck. If he noticed the subtle quake of her hands, he didn't mention it. She looked up and saw herself reflected in the golden visor. Even with its tint, she looked pale, washed out.

"No red flags, Eric. Chimera are holding up. Standard combat reflexes, well within standard Spartan operating parameters."

"Excellent. Keep me informed."

The audio spiked as another breaching charge detonated. Tinny gunfire rattled up from the speakers of her her headset. Another clearance report, calmly delivered by Chidinma this time. Rebecca turned about in her chair. She looked deathly pale.

"You must be proud, Eric."

"Doctor?"

"Two hours in and rock-solid. Two hundred confirmed kills, with countless more possible. They're every inch the killers you expected them to be."

"Spartans, Doctor." Eric corrected automatically.

Rebecca smiled wryly, saying nothing. Another doorway exploded in fire; more gunfire, screams. She'd best get used to it. After all, Chimera's activation had ultimately been her responsibility. Rebecca swallowed the lump in her throat, and turned to the display monitors, settling the headphones back on her head.

The com pinged. It was Damien.

"Spartan 451 to _Carpathia_, come in _Carpathia_."

There was a note of urgency in the fire team leader's voice. Rebecca snatched up her headset.

"This is _Carpthia_. Go ahead 451."

"We're just short of the main aquaduct. Estimated range; five hundred metres. I don't know if you're seeing this, but we've got crowds congregating ahead of our position over. Looks like militia sympathisers, but most of them aren't armed."

"What's the call, 451?" Eric said, as he patched in.

"They haven't seen us yet, Sir. Request permission to disperse tear gas before advancing, over."

"Get me a visual." Eric said to Rebecca.

For the first time in two hours, Rebecca flipped back on the visual feed from Chimera's helmet cams. The Spartans were crouched low in the shade of a side street, looking over at a throng of people mobbing the block of low-rise houses ahead. The homes were in one of the lower income parts of the city. Scaffolding rose up over the rooftops like skeletal fingers, grasping at the burning sun overhead. The crowds clung to them, crouching low on the slate rooftops, milling about the streets below. A few isolated gunmen walked amongst them, occasionally firing in the air as excitement got the better of them.

Vagrant youths stalked back and forth like caged animals, chanting, whooping. Some threw stones and all jostled for a better view of what lay out of sight. Younger children, perhaps as young as six or seven, ran back and forth, carrying flags and packets of ammunition, excited and terrified by the intoxicating chaos; giddy, heedless of the danger. The mob were forming a screen, beyond which armed insurgents were firing down upon the target convoy advancing up the dried up aquaduct, just out of sight.

Eric leaned forward and keyed the com.

"451, this is Chimera Actual. Rules of engagement are clear: neutralise any armed hostiles and disperse the remaining crowd. Minimise civilian casualties."

"Copy, Chimera Actual." Damien replied, rising to his feet and nodding to Rashid with a wave of his hand.

Chimera Four slapped a grenade into his breach-loaded launcher, snapping it shut with a satisfying clack. There was a hollow phunk as the grenade arced up into the air, twirling in the midday sun. It slapped down in the midst of the crowd, before tumbling to a rolling stop. The crowd didn't react, not immediately. They were too busy focusing on the beleaguered UNSC column on the far side of the building. Then the gas filters hissed to life, venting swirling coils of thick green smoke into the air. The crowd erupted with a surprised shriek and barked shouts of panic as the mist consumed them. The gun men barked at one another, a mix of different languages.

Damien waved Chimera forward. They rose up out of the shadows of the side street, striding forward, spreading out in a wide line. Luke tossed a second smoke grenade. Rashid's grenade launcher thumped twice more as they advanced. The smoke rose high and thick, choking the street. The world became a cloying green, swirling blur.

"Thermals." Damien instructed.

Kaizen worked smoothly, synching her target identification software with the viewfinder lenses integrated within Chimera's VISR suite. As the crowd rushed toward them, blindly clawing at each other with gnarled hands and streaming eyes, the insurgents bearing arms were tagged and categorised as viable combat targets; neatly outlined by red targeting boxes. Chimera stalked through the blinding smoke. They didn't need to open fire. Gauntlets and rifle butts broke bone and burst flesh. Slicing knife work thumped home with wet smacks.

Rebecca quietly averted her eyes from the display as Eric looked on, nodding in approval.

Damien pulled a sweating, trampled man back to his feet as he marched against the tide. The man pulled a knife and lashed out drunkenly. A mistake. Damien broke the man's wrist and simply shoved him back into the surging mayhem, moving on. The scrambling crowd churned around them, desperate to escape the maelstrom. Blind animal panic took over as they fled into the streets beyond.

"Clear visual on isolated Red Flag, upper rooftop." Chidinma reported, pausing to line up a shot with her anti-material rifle. An insurgent had appeared on an overlooking ledge, squinting down into the twisting smoke below.

"Take him."

The rifle thundered. The red box vanished as the sniper tumbled from his perch.

"Tango down."

The Spartans vaulted up into the building the Insurrectionist gunmen had previously occupied, taking overwatch positions. Damien moved to a window and sighted down his BR-85. In the distance, RCT Charlie sat exposed on the water duct, trails of smoke rising up from where vehicles had been torn apart by determined AT fire.

On the _Carpathia_, Chimera's com channel came alive once more.

"Sir, we have eyes on the convoy."

Eric nodded at Rebecca. She tapped a key and Damien's VISR-cam filled the central display.

"Sit-rep?"

"Grim, Sir."

"Get to it Chimera One, Chimera Actual out."

Overhead, rotors whooping, Falcon air assault landers began thumping over the aquaduct, their weapon crews unloading into the insurgents lurking in the ruins on the far side of the water duct. Drones buzzed far overhead, eerily omniscient as they unloaded rockets into targets unseen. Chidinma looked up at them, envious of their sky. General Stape's air support had finally arrived.

"You heard the man, Chimera, we've a job to do. And I, for one, don't want to let the flyboys have all the fun. Let's move!"

* * *

Rapid footfalls rang out against the high ceiling of the dimly lit mineshaft.

Military boots, sand-encrusted and weather-worn, marched into the chamber with purposeful intent. There were three men, wrapped in dust cloaks, storm goggles and shaven headed. Sweat glistened on their foreheads, sun burnt and red-raw from a hard morning's fighting. You could smell the burnt cordite lingering on their clothes, clinging to them like ingrained cigarette smoke. Each carried modern military hardware, heavily customised; ranging from heavy ballistic scopes to padded stocks - no two were alike.

They marched into a large cavernous chamber, itself a hive of activity. The centre of the room was arranged not unlike a UNSC war-room; a central command module mounted on an elevated stage, propped up by a robust set of steel lattice struts and accessed by skeletal metal steps. Large banners declaring allegiance to the United Liberation Front swept down, deep and crimson. The rest of the chamber was a hastily converted war-room: mobile power generators hummed and throbbed, as thick cables snaked across the floor. Packing crates, loaded with the high grade UNSC munitions had been broken open, and brimmed with lethal hardware. Heavy clumps of industrial-grade blasting munitions clumped ominously along the edges of the mineshaft, strewn along girders and supporting joists; expertly wired. The ULF's elite guard, fully armoured in surplus UNSC gear stood watchful at the edges of the chamber.

Insurgents bustled to and fro, though the crowds parted for the three veterans; stone killers all.

They snapped to attention before a tall, imposing man in a long black coat. Age had rendered his pale flesh gaunt, and his smooth hairless scalp and unblinking eyes unnerved even them. This was a man who had seen things, done things. It was difficult to gauge his age: while his body was strong and powerful beneath the dark coat, his voice indicated a man close to his late fifties, and faint surgical-tissue behind his ears and at the base of his jaw line spoke of a man who had worn many faces over his long journey to the dark tunnels beneath New Cadiz. His appearance had a regal quality, and his blue eyes seldom demonstrated expression beyond the faintest twitch of disapproval.

Three crisp salutes were answered with a solemn one in return. The man in the black coat bowed his head as he conversed with the new arrivals, who gruffly produced a small recording black box, before he turned and ascended the steps leading up to the main briefing dais. There, the main the black coat joined a shorter, younger man, who hunched over the tactical readouts, his brow furrowed deep in thought.

Al'Hajar was not a particularly tall man, nor was he particularly well muscled or built. Slim and handsome where the man in the black coat was imperious and reptilian, Al'Hajar was warm and enthusiastic to those on his side; ruthless and cruel to those who were not. A hard lifetime of dogged resistance to the UNSC had not sapped his energy. Bright, intelligent eyes and a neatly groomed beard shot with white. His name was doubtless a code name, adopted by some ancient oath against the UEG.

Al Hajar, codenamed Black Stone by the UNSC intelligence community, was wanted on a half dozen planets for countless acts of terrorism. Targeted assassinations, public bombings, funding and inspiring local cell leaders; Al'Hajar was a man of startling contrasts. For all this ruthlessness, he never missed a day's prayer. He never drank, seldom swore, and yet would kill a busload of people and sleep like a baby. Even in spite of his commanding role, Black Stone was not afraid to get his hands dirty; being a notoriously savage fighter when required.

For that, his men loved him.

And they truly were his men, it had to be said. It stood testament to his magnetism that so many disparate groups flocked to his cause. He was more than simple fundamentalist. While he doubtless had the support of fanatics, who followed his religious devotion and joined him in prayer, his charisma and tactical nous had a wider appeal to radicals from further afield. The anarcho-Christians respected his keen tactical mind and open willingness to take on the UNSC in their own backyard. The more right wing elements, a thousand marginalised extremists from a hundred eclectic organisations, many of whom were secular, saw the opportunity for major civil unrest and seized it with two clenched fists.

It was his tactical brilliance that inspired their collective trust. He knew when to hit the UNSC, how to catch it off balance. A targeted assassination here, a public shooting or bombing campaign there - everything was precisely measured to cause the maximum carnage at the most opportune moment. ONI had devoted considerable resources in their efforts to eliminate Al'Hajar, and yet still he lived. The men had dubbed him The Lion of New Cadiz, praising his courage to so openly declare his resistance to the UEG.

Without him, the insurgency's cohesion would collapse overnight.

Al'Hajar smiled as his most trusted advisor approached.

"Well, Conrad," Al'Hajar's voice was upbeat, but the man Al'Hajar knew as Conrad Hedeker could feel the tension in it. The Lion of New Cadiz wanted to be out there, fighting alongside his men. "What's the word from the front?"

Conrad Hedeker stood with his hands clasped at the small of his back, chin tucked to his chest as he mulled over the map of the city.

The display lit up where his hands touched the floating images; red circles isolating and identifying the three major flashpoints across the city.

"They hit us with orbital strikes; ODST and other Special Forces, most likely," Hedeker's voice was precise; dispassionate and business like. "No bombardment, at least for now."

The three red circles pulsating like sores on the tactical overlay.

"Hard contact drops, directly targeted to reinforce their beleaguered southern convoys. We suspect it's the UNSC _Carpathia_, supported by two vessels of a similar tonnage."

"The _Carpathia_?"

"UNSC Frigate, Charon-class. Captained by a Captain Reade. Reliable officer, though not particularly brilliant. She's not the one calling the shots, however."

Heddeker waved his hand once more. A single portrait of a grizzled man in a spotless Army uniform, bedecked with medals rose up above the display. A haggard face; bloodshot eyes. The image was time-stamped and marked Classified, eyes-only. It dated from two weeks ago. A dozen illegal black ops scrolled past. There was more redaction than actual text.

"Observe: one General William Frederick Stape, commander of the JSF operating in the Granica System. Thirty year veteran. We've fought alongside one another before, in one form or another. The Second Battle of Harvest. Then Reach, then Earth in '56. Ground commander by trade: brusque, no-nonsense, efficient. Enjoys making an entrance; not ideally suited to police action such as this. I would refer you to his penchant for Orbital Strikes and deploying advanced Special Forces."

Another drift of his hands panned the display past a litany of harrowing battle reports. Hedeker continued speaking, dispassionate to the point of apparent boredom.

"An opponent to be feared, certainly, but it's not so much _what_ he's doing that interests me…" Hedeker's eyes tightened, "… but rather _who_ he's using to do it."

Hedeker nodded down at one of his lieutenants. The soldier inserted the data chip into the underside of the map display's belly. Video footage, shaky and static-shot, overlaid itself over the biographical data-pane.

Gunfire raining down on a convoy. Mortar fire, wild and sporadic. Cloudbursts of shrapnel blasting into the air. Flak, thrown up by a half dozen crude field pieces across the city.

The image cut to street level. A UNSC soldier sprinting across the street, bullets dashing at his heels, hurling himself through a doorway. The viewpoint jerked upwards, zoomed out. There was a dazzling lens flare as the viewfinder auto-adjusted. Then drop pods; shrieking darts of fire ripped across the clear morning sky. Panicked fingers pointed up at them, as the rebels reacted to the unexpected meteor shower. An impact detonation; clouds of billowing dust washing across the frame, obscuring it, some two blocks away. Then pandemonium of a tide, savagely turned.

The focus shifted, tracking something moving. Too fast to see. Whoever was operating the camera didn't live to see what killed them. The camera was suddenly on the floor, staring into the unblinking eye of its former owner.

Al'Hajar managed a blink of his own in surprise.

"I don't understand."

"Watch again." Hedeker said quietly. "Look closer."

With a little wave and loop of his wrist, Hedeker rewound the image. The camera leapt back up into the hands of its owner. The earth spat forth drop pods which shot back up into the air. Dust-wash receded into the ground, burned in by glinting lens-flare. Gunfire. Then -

Hedekker slaped the display with an open palm. The image froze.

It was a blur, one too massive to be a proper human. Blue armour, a hulking, sculpted giant; as much tank as it was Greek hero. It's BR-85 was painted squarely at the camera.

The colour visibly drained from Al'Hajar's face.

Nobody in the chamber moved for a moment. A hush fell over the bustling cavern, as all eyes fell on the image shown. The ULF elite guards exchanged nervous glances. Eventually Al'Hajar spoke. His voice was barely a whisper.

"So it's true then. They're here."

A low chuckle filled the chamber. Hedeker wore an unsettling smile.

"You should be flattered. It's not every day the UNSC sends a Spartan." Hedeker replied mirthfully. Then his eyes narrowed, noticing something. He spread his hands out, as though peeling apart an imaginary curtain.

The frame zoomed in on the unit logo decorating the giant's chest. A single white circle framing a roaring mutant; part lion, part goat, part snake; a beast, all crouched and ready to pounce.

A mongrel, snarling thing.

Hedeker smile softened, as though recognising an old friend. It was an expression so seldom as to unnerve even Al'Hajar.

"Interesting." Hedeker mused aloud.

Al'Hajar glared at Hedeker.

"You know these things?" Al'Hajar pointedly refused to call them people.

"A passing familiarity, you might say. My, but it has been some time."

"This changes everything."

The older man's artic-blue eyes never left the display.

"Yes… yes, I rather expect it does." Conrad Hedeker said faintly.

Al'Hajar looked at Hedeker fiercely.

"And you'll take care of it?" Al'Hajar was busying himself with casualty reports from the western flank. "Kill them now, quickly, and be done with it."

Hedeker looked back unblinking. He smiled, coldly.

"Of course, Al'Hajar."

With that Hedeker turned smartly and clopped his way down the stairs. His three lieutenants attended him; McBride, Pershing, Petrovic. His best men, gifted operators to a man. Their loyalty was absolute.

"Al'Hajar expects results." he said to them privately, "And our mission clock is ticking. It's time to escalate. Do we have a possible target location?"

McBride, a slab-jawed monster of a man produced a holo-map projected by his neural lace. It rotated in the palm of his hand. Pershing reached across and plucked the map from the air, lighting it up and enlarging it on his own TACPAD. Pershing was a compact but well made man, with dangerous eyes and a no-nonsense manner.

"We've lost contact with the ambush team engaging the southern column along the MSR. Over the next half hour, coms went dark from Ambush Teams Fifteen through Thirty Four, along this route here."

"That's over ninety men." Pershing added pointedly.

Hedeker considered this with pursed lips.

"They're heading east, then."

"Toward the waterway, yes Sir. Our reports indicate they're moving toward the eastern column."

Hedeker rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"To reinforce the eastern convoy pushing the water duct. How many men do we have stationed there?"

"Three hundred, possibly more if the locals commit."

"I mean proper fighters; ones with real commitment."

"A hundred men, or thereabouts, Sir.."

"A pity to lose so many, but it should buy you some time to get established. McBride, head for the Dahkar Market, two klicks northwest. You'll receive our guests there. Pershing, you have your orders - move to your assigned position and await my signal."

The last person Hedeker turned to Petrovic, his sour-faced demolitions expert. A Kosolovic diehard, but UNSC trained and - like the others - ODST qualified.

"Preparations are proceeding as planned?"

The flint-eyed engineer nodded once, confidently.

"Excellent."

The man they knew as Hedeker fixed them with a look.

"No mistakes, gentlemen. We only get one shot at this."

The men paused for a moment. Then they saluted in unison.

"_Sic Semper Tyrannus_, Comrade Hedeker." Petrovic said fiercely.

Conrad Hedeker returned it sagely, meaning it. He was, after all, consigning each of them to their deaths.

"_Sic Semper Tyrannus_, gentlemen. Fight well."


	24. XX: Sanctuary and Salvation

_"Of all the myriad groups arising from the ashes of the Human-Covenant War, the Displaced Persons Alliance (DPA) proved to be one of the more influential post-war factions within the wider UEG political sphere. _

_Espousing a centrist rheteoric, the DPA was largely apolitical in its inception - favouring targeted solutions to the widespread problem of mass population displacement, funded through charitable donations. Their focus was logistical, humanitarian. This changed in time, as its hands-on desire to intervene, and fondness for direct action, quickly won it the support of influential politicans, financiers, celebrities - and most importantly - the common citizen. This quickly complicated matters, as what had once been a humanitarian movement quickly became politicised, and with these new politics, the DPA acquired new enemies. Now established on the political stage, and widely popular across the ChatterNet and further afield, the DPA grew in power. _

_And power, as the saying goes, is not without its price..."_

- excerpt, On Governments and Governance - Notable Factions of the Post-War Period (published 2593).

* * *

Far removed from the raging fires and broken rubble of New Cadiz, the city of Argjend is a clean and eerily quiet metropolis. The wide avenues and stretching boulevards have long since cleared; martial law having been in effect since the UNSC taskforce arrived in system. The little traffic that is allowed to travel the empty highways is hemmed into carefully control checkpoints, swept by teams of hard-faced MP's. They check the underside of each car with meticulous care; all mirrored sensor brooms and snuffling sniffer dogs. This is a city on edge.

Amanda Jennings sat in the queue for one such checkpoint now, the back of her seat vibrating from the purring engine of the armoured truck. All vehicles entering and exiting the Refugee Zone were subject to full vehicular examination, and the relief convoy of the Displaced Persons Alliance was no exception. As acting Governor, Administrator Amanda Jennings would ordinarily have travelled in far greater comfort, but her appointed escort had particular size requirements to accommodate. They had been most insistent.

Not that she was one to argue. When she had first been introduced to Fireteam Trident, the towering giants had struck her as being grossly surplus to requirements; more suited to a battlefield than a security detail. Trident One, a soft-spoken man by the name Loic Lambert, had quickly proven her wrong, however. While no attempts had yet been made against her person, tensions were running high, and a sense of lingering malice pervaded. The very presence of the Spartans comforted her greatly.

It was at Trident's insistence that they now occupied an armoured truck, one with a troop bay large enough to accommodate two fully combat-prepped Spartans at any given time. One of the them was a monster of a Spartan named Aata. He toted a triple barrelled rotary cannon, the ammo links of which clinked and rattled as he fidgeted in the cramped confines of the cargo hold. It was a weapon far beyond the scale of the average infantryman, but then Aata was a goliath - even by Spartan standards.

Trident One sat completely still by comparison, Loic's focus entirely fixed upon the Tacpad showing the motorcade's route along the elevated expressway that formed one of the most direct routes over Lake Silver.

Loic had prepared for the inspection tour extensively. The convoy was uniformly composed of five identical supply trucks, all of which had been up-armoured internally. To the untrained eye, the truck carrying the Acting Governor was visually identical to those around it, but it had been extensively modified at his request. An added internal layer of blast-ablative plating had been added, as had emergency escape hatches in the event the vehicle was over-turned by an IED. The wheels too were reinforced; the engine block had a dummy electric generator in the event it was pierced by sniper fire. A practiced soldier, Loic never took chances.

Trident Four and Five, Robert and Kazuo respectively, were providing cover fire from a transport Falcon shadowing their position high above. Trident Two, a small and wiry Spartan by the name of Suraj, had scouted ahead, taking a team of UNSC Marines to secure the route. They would rendezvous at the refugee camp; some four klicks due south-west.

Lambert had been against the whole idea of an inspection tour in the first place. It was only a few hours ago that a suspicious package had been mailed to the Governor's office, to be disposed of by an EOD team via controlled detonation. Likely a hoax, some joker looking to capitalise on the on-going tensions across the planet. Still, even with the imminent threat, Governor Jennings would not be deterred. As Acting Governor, she had retained control of the executive branch of the civilian government. Combined with her existing role as the head of the Displaced Persons Alliance, this gave her significant pull.

The relief mission would go ahead as planned.

"Sweeper teams are clear." their driver transmitted from the front cabin, "We're clear to proceed."

"Keep it moving." Loic murmured, offering the Governor a reassuring nod.

"Roger, rolling out."

The truck jolted as it lurched into motion once again.

Not for the first time, Jennings felt bulky and swollen in the swaddling thickness of the Abdicator body armour the Spartans had strapped her in. Where Trident's armour was a sleek body-moulded deep sea green, her armour was a dull tan; a civilian model more akin to what Marine units wore in the sifting dust of the New Cadiz theatre. Perched on her head was a bulky com-set, which chafed her ears raw and tugged at her snagging hair. A necessary discomfort: it allowed her to hear the com-chatter issuing back and forth between the convoy drivers and their appointed guardians.

The journey to the camp ultimately passed without incident. As the convoy came down from the skyway, funnelling into the narrow streets that fed into the industrial district at the southern edge of the city, close to the Starport. Here the buildings were imposing, corrugated monsters; squat and broad and blunt-shaped; stained with plasma-scoring from where the edges of buildings had been riveted together and sealed with industrial-scale torches. It had rained earlier, and the tyres hissed as they scraped along the wet tarmac.

Argjend was a progressive, well-accommodated capital; like so many of the other city-states across the wider UEG protectorate. Its construction had originally lacked the more overtly defensive architecture commonly adopted in the wake of the Human Covenant war; instead favouring the towering super-scrapers and high rise habitation stacks once witnessed on Reach, or some of the more expansive Inner Colonies.

That was not to say that recent times had not had some degree of influence on Granica V's largest settlement. You could see it in the adaptation of certain quirks. The presence of the orbital defence towers, for instance; or in the way the Starports and the rail lines were sufficiently spaced out from one another to minimise the impact of planetary bombardment. Where concrete and limestone walls had been shorn up with reinforced instacrete coating and thick support joists; or the manner in which its highways relied heavily upon supplementary underground tunnels, affording ground traffic shelter from potential air strikes. Conspicuous too were the more than adequate provision of emergency shelters; many of which had been repurposed stores from a more innocent era.

Perhaps even more indicative of the times was the stencilled graffiti which covered the walls the further you went from the cold glass and smooth sophistication of the core financial centre. Snaking neon lines ran across alleyway walls and coating the underside of the arches which supported the Grav-Train lines overhead. Clenched fists made grand gestures defying the status quo.

NEW CADIZ STANDS FREE, one scrawl declared, its freedom fighter a single line silhouette all dribbling yellow paint.

A FREE SHITHOLE, a more abrasive tag responded, its font marked by hard angles and cold UNSC blue.

INNIES OUT, read another, altogether more blunt slogan. Some charming soul had adorned this with a swastika, however insensible.

A panoply of prejudices from both ends of the political spectrum. Being the cultural, economic and military heartland of UEG governance on Granica V, the city was considerably more sympathetic to the UNSC deployment than some of the smaller settlements. That the government had finally - after vehement lobbying from the DPA - managed to effect a coordinated relief effort for those fleeing the war had won them a large amount of moderate support. Indeed, such was the level of local support that many commentators questioned the need for martial law in the capital, with many deeming the on-going lockdown to be unnecessary, even heavy handed. And so the tension persisted, with no clear resolution to the malaise which hung over the city like a brewing cloud.

As the convoy ground to a halt, tyres squelching in soft muck and sloshing puddles, Loic was not so sure things were due to improve any time soon. Scared eyes watched them from all angles; peering down from dark doorways and overhanging balconies.

The Refugee Zone formed a large bubble on the southern edge of the industrial zone surrounding the principal Star Port. Originally a sprawling tent city at the base of the southern foothills, rapid deployment of government-mandated construction teams had thrown up a hastily formed prefab settlement that was quickly merging seamlessly with the hillside beyond. The result was a speedy solution to the housing crisis, but at a cost to the clean delineating order of Argjend's grid-iron planning; civilisation without civility. Entire habitation blocks had been pumped out by the auto-refineries two at a time: whole sections of the housing being pre-assembled and slid into place before being welded together by construction crews provided by Traxus Heavy Industries, Jotun, and a half dozen smaller sub-contractors.

Even with the UNSC's direct aid, the UEG response had underestimated the number of refugees flooding in from New Cadiz. Part of the problem was that Argjend had a pre-existing refugee problem that long pre-dated the insurrection. Indeed, many of the original refugees had left their existing habitation elsewhere, flocking to the designated Zone, chasing rumours - however false - that things were better here. The consequence was that tenements were being filled faster than they could be built. Production facilities were pushed beyond capacity.

The people didn't wait. They scavenged what they could. Plywood, sloppily poured polycrete; it didn't matter: anything to get a roof over their heads.

With each passing day a new influx of refugees was deposited within the security quarantine, and submitted for processing. Here idents were cross referenced with existing immigration archives; each refugee subjected to a rigorous screening process. It was a harsh necessity. All too often had insurrectionists managed to secrete themselves amongst the milling crowds; waiting to announce themselves with a hidden rifle or a primed suicide vest. Even now the entry zone to the Refugee Zone resembled a prison; with its spooled razor wire and overlooking guard towers staffed with wary Marines.

Hemmed in on all sides by a large perimeter wall, the convoy rolled through the entrance gate. Mounted machine guns tracked them as they passed.

Beyond the clearance gate, the Refugee Zone had become a new micro-city in its own right; a slum nestled beneath the chrome shadow of Argjend's towering mega structures. Officially it was coded as Settlement Zone Designate A-31E (Temporary), but to the one million registered asylum seekers crammed within it, it was anything but.

It became Little Sanctuary.

Nobody knows where the name originated. The people of New Cadiz that had fled the war spoke a myriad of languages beside English-Standard; Portuguese, Arabic, Urdu, French, Siamese; Mandarin and Cantonese both. New Cadiz had been a melting pot, and those fortunate enough to escape the worst of the fighting soon found themselves cramped within the confines of a walled slum capable of accommodating roughly half their number.

Where Argjend was ordered and cosmopolitan, Little Sanctuary was dog-rough and bohemian. Its buildings bulged against the outer limits of the Zone, straining against the perimeter wall that constricted it. Faced with no room to expand outward, the city grew up instead. More floors were simply bolted on top of the existing prefabs; either by official design or by crude girder work jury-rigged by some of the more enterprising residents. Within the months that were to followed, the micro-city would outgrow its borders, becoming an eclectic jumble of corrugated mish-mash; a blight that hugged the slopes of the foothills beyond - a favela in all but name. Years later, it would become a tourist attraction in its own right; famous for its rough and ready sense of adventure.

But this was now. The ground around the Refugee Zone had no paving; no discernible hardpan of any kind. Desperate to relieve the urgent need for new housing, the initial prefabs had simply been sunk into the open grassland by their foundations, and the city slapped on top. The result of this was singular; a carpet of churned muck wherever your boots stepped.

With the renewed urgency arising from the New Cadiz rebellion, the newer stacks had been thrown up even faster than before, exacerbating the jumbled mess. Duckboard laid out in sections was the best you could hope for; with the occasional railway sleeper forming walkways that sank into the mire with a gurgling squelch.

The Spartans disembarked, fanning out between the convoy and the on looking crowd beyond. They flanked Amanda as she stepped away and moved deeper into Sanctuary; drinking in the sights, smells and dazzling colours of the foundling slum-city. The rest of the civilian relief teams waited within their trucks, too nervous to exit and face the potential wrath of the waiting mob. Undaunted, Amanda continued alone, flanked by her two towering sentinels, her average height rendered tiny by comparison.

Over the coming months, social strata became easily distinguished: the higher you were in the stacks, the more status and influence you wielded. Crime would become rife in the months ahead, and it wasn't long before those in the wider city reported refugees slipping the boundaries of the Zone and stealing into the city beyond. While weapon access was tightly controlled by the initial screen-and-clears, knife crime and punishment beatings became commonplace among the various gangs that quickly asserted dominance in the unfolding chaos.

Commerce was confined to barter, the majority of asylum seekers having lost everything in their flight from the wars, both local and extra-planetary.

As Amanda stepped out into the warmth of the midday sun, she marvelled at the colours each of the stacks had been daubed in. There was a glamour to it; a certain noisy richness. Not content with the default slate-grey of a Traxus standard field-pattern habitation block, the residents had hastily sprayed, stamped and otherwise stencilled their buildings in a riot of clashing colours. Neon greens flanked lurid reds and pale nimbus blues. Crude power cables and celebratory bunting - much of it woven by hand - had been strung from building to building; lending the entire sub-city an almost carnival atmosphere. It would only become richer in time, a throwback to a less sophisticated but ultimately happier century.

The convoy was carrying a shipment of humanitarian rations packs (dubbed "hum-rats" for short) and large plastic drums of water. The crowds hung back from the supply convoys at first, intimidated by the two Spartans shadowing Amanda. Eventually Amanda gave Loic a nod.

The Spartan lowered his Battle Rifle to the ground, waving the crowds forward.

Nobody budged. They scarcely blinked. Loic turned and looked at Amanda, shoulder pauldrons clinking with the faintest of shrugs.

Amanda keyed the com-link her head-set was tuned to.

"Do these trucks have a PA system?"

"Negative, Administrator, but one moment," Loic sent back, tapping into his TACPAD, "Patching you through to my suit's audio suite now, Ma'am."

The Spartan gave her a thumbs up.

"Citizens of the UEG, Friends…" Amanda smiled, her voice booming out from Loic's helmet speakers, carrying high against the looming favela walls.

"I know you have endured much to be here. The war, the constant fighting. Even here, times are tough. They call this place Little Sanctuary. And it is true - there is scant comfort here."

Amanda took a breath.

"But we there is more we can do. We can try harder. We can do better. But it's going to take all of us. You me, these brave Spartans here. Humanity survived its first expansion to the stars. When the Covenant invaded, we survived. We can survive this. We _will_ survive this. All that we ask is that you trust us."

Amanda waited for a moment. Eventually a child stepped forward. A girl, even younger than her daughter Sarah, who was now in her early teens. The girl was of Indian extraction; her face was clean and pretty, but her arm was severely bandaged - a patchwork job from where bio-foam supplies had proven too hard to find in the resource starved slum. A single daisy had been looped through her hair, its white petals at stark odds with the filth caking her. She hesitated, having half parted from the thronging crowd behind her; unsure of herself.

Amanda switched bands to the inter-Spartan com channel.

"Aata, get an aid package and go to her. Remove your helmet."

The towering Spartan twisted his head to look at Loic.

"Sir?"

"Do as she says, Three."

"Copy." The towering Maori let the assault cannon dangle on its sling, and peeled off his helmet with a hiss-snap as the neck seal released.

There was a collective gasp as the crowd saw the Spartan's face. None of them had ever seen a Spartan before, never realised that towering iron giant was flesh and bone beneath the hardened shell of Titanium-A. Aata's face was dressed in a series of ritualistic tattoos, a throwback to his time as a tanker back in the Human Covenant War, and indeed his Maori warrior heritage.

Aata stepped forward, a hum-rat in his hands. He crouched down on one knee, beckoning the child over; a warm smile plastered across his broad, tattooed face.

Slowly, tentatively, the child stepped forward. She approached gingerly, toes squelching in the muck from where she had stepped clear of the railway sleepers. The girl occasionally stole uncertain glances back over her shoulder at the crowd behind her, where doubtless her family watched. For their part, the crowd watted with baited breath.

After a moment, Amanda realised she was holding her breath too.

Aata hunched forward, proffering the hum-rat.

The girl plucked it from his gauntleted hands; fumbling with the plastic-sealed wrapping. Eventually, with no small amount of determined frustration, she tore at it with her teeth, ripping into the MRE hidden within the foil beneath. Aata chuckled as she inhaled the crumbs of the freeze-dried bread. The crowd erupted in a cheer, surging forward with a burst of energy, the tense spell now broken

Aata had to rise to his feet to avoid being swamped by the crowd entirely. He plucked the girl up in his hands, hefting her as a normal sized man would bounce an infant. The crowd churned about him, a thousand hands out-stretched and begging for more.

Amanda waved the go ahead to the relief teams. The back of the trucks banged open, and package after package was tossed out into the sea of churning, cheering people.

* * *

Across the planet, a far less heartening scene unfolded.

The expansive roadway baked in the afternoon sun; both from the relentless heat and the curling flames which licked up to the blue sky above. The outrider Warthogs had been caught square in the open, pulverised by a combination of RPG and disciplined mortar fire. Broken bodies littered the pavement; butchered colonial civil defence for the most part. The killing had taken place some three hours earlier. Since then, the bodies had been left to rot in the sun.

Less forgotten was the bulk of the convoy, which sat isolated; quaking from mortar fire. The Marine fire teams of RCT Charlie had moved in from the south-east to reinforce them, but even now they crouched at the edge of the empty water duct, unable to advance to assist the beleaguered convoy or else risk falling prey to the pounding barrage which shrieked down from on high. A pall of black smoke twisted in the air above the battered assault convoy. The water duct itself was smattered with smoking craters from where indirect fire had fallen short.

Perched in their overlook point on the second floor of a fire-gutted office building, surveying the devastation through the scope of his rifle, Damien opened the inter-squad com channel.

"Well, Chimera, I'm open to suggestions."

"Mortar fire, well directed from the looks of it." Rashid observed.

"Which means spotters, Sir." Chidinma added, craning her head to look up, "And the sun is behind us."

"A moment," that was Rashid again, "Scanning."

One gauntlet held against the side of his bulky helmet, Rashid adjusted the target detection settings of his GUNGIR VISR system; prioritising reflection resolutions; pixels of a certain intensity; lens flare, filtered for distance and dust distortion. The shine grew into several noticeable pinpricks of dazzling light, so sharp that even his augmented eyes had to squint to look at them.

"Kaizen, a favour, if you will."

"Certainly, Spartan 492."

"Prioritise and catalogue all targets of noted high intensity spectrum - screen for residual heat signatures and mark likely silhouettes as potential red flags."

"Marking now."

A bevy of red target boxes flashed up; sorting themselves for tagging as confirmed enemy combatants. Kaizen cross-referenced Rashid's visual check with the orbital data relayed from the drones and even the targeting scopes of the _Carpathia_ itself. With each passing second, a picture was being formed.

Chidinma was already sighting her anti-material rifle.

"Isolate confirmed red-flag profiles and upload all viewfinder data to Chidinma's targeting scope."

"Already done." Kaizen reported smoothly.

Chidinma settled into a shooting position and cracked off a single round. Far in the distance, one of the red flags faded to a dull amber, then vanished altogether. The intensity of the mortar deluge began to wane slightly.

Rashid turned to look at Damien, his single ocular lens micro-adjusting as it re-adjusted.

"They're using line of sight to pin-point the convoy's location. Laser tags, likely keyed into an automated mortar platform of some kind. We have you covered, Sir."

Damien nodded, signalling to the others.

"Vee, Luke, you're with me."

"Following your lead, 451," Luke replied. Viktorya simply flashed a green status indicator and rose to her feet.

The three Spartans leapt down to street level; a full two storey drop which they weathered with cat-like grace; the barest dip in their knees belying the strain put upon the buckling pavement beneath them.

In the midst of the kill zone, First Lieutenant Hailey Jackson was bellowing into her com line, straining to be heard over the shrapnel that was clanging off the hull of the transport with a resounding series of pings, clangs and dongs. The sound was maddening, as though they had taken cover within a giant bell, and their enemies had taken to hitting that bell with a sledgehammer. The Armadillo troop carrier was a stocky, hardy vehicle, but if this kept up they were going to be shredded as badly as the colonials the Marines had been sent to reinforce.

"I said I want that mortar fire silenced-"

Another booming crack sounded across the open water duct. A different sound to the shrieking slam of artillery and spalling clumps of rebounding polycrete.

"And who the hell is shooting?"

There came a deep resounding clang from outside the hull. The Marines exchanged glances.

"What the hell is that?" one of the Marines hissed.

"Quiet!" Jackson snapped.

The new sound came again. After a moment, Jackson realised what it was.

Somebody was knocking on the hull.

There was a flurry of charge handles being pulled as the Marines prepped to debark in a counter assault pattern. Jackson muscled her way through to the rear hatch, her own assault rifle braced in an firing stance. She nodded at Perkins, the man closest to the hatch. Perkins gripped the emergency release, returned the nod. On a three count, he pulled. The storm hatch slammed down. Sunlight slapped them in the eyes.

It took a moment for her helmet's glare-lenses to auto-adjust.

Standing before them, spread out in a wide line, were three armoured giants; each as individual as they were terrible to behold. Weapons held in a passive sweeping pattern, the Spartans looked far too nonplussed for people standing in the heart of an enemy kill zone. Behind them, the rest of RCT Charlie marine compliment moved up, free to advance.

"Lieutenant Jackson?" the lead giant enquired politely. A male, going by the filtered voice and the musculature.

"Uh, yes sir."

"No Sir, Ma'am." the Spartan shook his head, "Sierra Four Five One, on site and here to assist. Fireteam Chimera are your designated relief."

"Shouldn't you be in cover?" Perkins asked.

The Spartan cocked his head to one side, puzzled. Another sniper round rang out across the water duct. The Marines reflexively ducked. The Spartans didn't flinch.

This time the grey armoured Spartan spoke up, holding out a hand as though testing the weather for rain.

"Notice the pleasant lack of artillery fire now encroaching your position." the second Spartan spoke up, "Observe the restored civility."

Another thunderclap of Chidinma's sniper rifle interrupted him.

"And believe me when I say we have you covered." the grey Spartan finished.

Luke was right. Robbed of their spotters, the artillery had stopped lost line of sight. Their target locks broken, the automated mortar systems had fallen silent. So too had the rocket fire from the buildings beside them. Eventually the accompanying small arms fire died out altogether, with the insurrectionists realising that to show ones face meant death. Soon, only the distant sounds of the war filled the sky.

The blue Spartan raised a hand to the side of his helmet, listened for a moment then nodded.

"New orders just came through, Marines." Damien said, "General Stape needs you back in the fight. We're to rendezvous with RCT Bravo and push for the next target marker."

"Confirmed rally point?"

"The Dakhar Market, on the outskirts of the central municipal district."

"And the plan when we get there?"

"You heard Spartan 502, Lieutenant." Damien tilted his head to indicate Luke, "Restore civility."

* * *

To the north, two commandos lay prone on a rooftop, hidden by the dusty parapet which ran the length of the rooftop's perimeter. The men made for an odd duo, armoured as they were in a hodgepodge of military kit; kit that may have once been ODST gear, hat it not been so thoroughly weathered, patched and modified as to be unrecognisable. Both men had stowed their signature ODST and Air Assault helmets with the rest of their kit, lumping them in the shadows of the recessed stairwell behind them.

The Dahkar Market formed the central trade access for the southern half of the city before Central, the inner central business district of New Cadiz, and its economic heartland. There, the buildings grew taller: multi-storey office buildings, industrial storage units for Orbital Two. While unchecked fires had ravaged many of the buildings during the initial stages of the uprising, many more stood whole; towering edifices fortified from top to bottom with lurking resistance fighters.

The market was a basic square, almost a full kilometre wide from end to end. Its northern end was dominated by a single large meat-processing factory, long since repurposed into a general trade house for passing traders en route to Orbital Two, and now serving as a local headquarters for the United Liberation Front militia.

The trade house rose up five storeys; all chipped stonework and crudely whitewashed walls. A colourful mural depicting a series of children playing had been defaced, splashed with revolutionary red paint and stitched with bullet holes that were all - alarmingly - at waist-height. On closer inspection, the sniper-spotter team realised that not all of the offending red splashing the walls was paint.

The spotter, Master Sergeant Steven Pemberley and his shooter-partner, First Sergeant Steven Walcott, had long served together, distinguishing themselves as UNSC Army Rangers and subsequently becoming members of the 808th Pathfinders in the closing stages of the Human Covenant War. As a twinned sniper-spotter team they went by the common designation Echo Six Three, though their shared first names and uniformly ragged appearance invariably led to them being referred to off-coms as "The Two Steve's". Pemberley wore a floppy boonie hat, whereas Walcott - the shooter - had tied on his trademark bandana, not wishing to obscure his vision as he peered down the rifle scope. The Two Steves had nestled into their perch, and were busy cataloguing troop movements on the northern end of the market.

They were not kept idle: insurgents were everywhere.

"I count eighteen contacts total; five storey building due north." Pemberley whispered, playing the binoculars left to right. "Strictly amateur hour stuff."

Walcott was below him, his rifle peering through a narrow hole in the lower corner of the parapet. To any passer by, their position was just another squat stucco building in a sea of innocuous, similarly weather-beaten buildings.

"Roger, tagging 'em up." Walcott replied, marking their position for the drones overhead to orientate upon.

The aerial drones, all but unseen in the sky miles above, would catalogue the positions of the insurgents; beaming their position up to the Carpathia's Orbital Surveillance suite ands storing their sighted positions for dissemination to all friendly UNSC forces within the AO. Across the city, some twenty other Pathfinder teams were conducting the same high risk reconnaissance. It was tense work, and each passing moment carried the risk of discovery and, with that, certain death.

"Hold up." Pemberley murmured calmly, "More contact."

Three troop trucks had just hauled up on the far side of the square, brake pedals groaning as they began disgorging troops. More rag-tag gun-men; clad in the typical breather masks, glare goggles and dust covers.

At least at first glance.

"Check out our new arrivals," Walcott whispered, "Notice anything?"

While the original garrison had been typical ULF fare - ill-disciplined, amped up on rhetoric, combat stims and little else - these new arrivals were a decidedly different breed.

The first warning bell was the quality of their equipment. BR85's, long range sniper rifles and SPNKR rocket tubes - modern tech, and dependable too. Those were surprising. Even more surprising was what came out of the trucks next. High end material: Spartan Laser cannons, magrail launchers, deployable Ballista anti-air missile launchers.

The uneasy feeling in Pemberley's stomach grew worse the more he watched. It was the manner of how the insurgents deploy the equipment that alarmed him. It was partly the way they carried themselves: no nonsense; a sense of urgency, certainly, but without the shrill bickering and heated arguments many of the less disciplined fighters often showed in the initial moments before a fire-fight. These men were different.

They had a playbook.

Under their supervision, the square transformed from a dusty opening in the middle of the city to a veritable fortress. Buildings were reinforced with heaped sandbags, looped with coiling spools of razor wire. The trucks themselves, crudely up-armoured with metal plates riveted to the side, were strategically parked and used as additional cover around the mouth of the square's northern entrance; forming an impromptu blockade.

Gunmen took over-watch positions, rigging up bipod mounted machine posts and establishing ammunition stores within direct hand reach of the defending gun crews, Their tactical assessment and force disposition seemed pre-planned, ripped from the pages of a UNSC Advanced Infantry Primer. So too were their hand signals: clear, crisp, efficient.

Pemberley adjusted the focus ring on his spotter scope, zooming closer.

The final giveaway was the insurgents' armour, still visible despite the widespread adoption of ragged keffiyehs and face-obscuring shemaghs. Though the men tried to hide it with local affectations, there was no mistake: these new men wore UNSC ballistic armour, albeit bereft of insignia. Military advisors, ONI liked to call them. Pemberley knew the look well: he'd worn it himself enough over the years, teaching terrified colonials how to shoot Covenant. Were it not for the lack of IFF tags and their direct association with the local gunmen, these new hostiles could have stepped from the ranks of the 808th.

"Double check they're not friendlies." Pemberley frowned, doubting himself for the first time in a long while.

"No ident-tags, no nothing." Walcott hissed, as he looked up from the scope. "Something's not right."

"If they're ex-military, they've gotta have _some_ kind of ident-chipping."

Walcott checked again, shaking his head.

"Scope isn't reading anything."

"Oh shit." Pemberley breathed, realising something.

"What?"

"If they've got access to military grade equipment…" Pemberley looked at Walcott.

_Then they can see us_, Walcott finished Pemberley's thought. _All they need to do is pick up a scope and look._

Walcott immediately powered down his scope. He then reached for his com-line, snapped it off, and then pulled a heat-displacing camo blanket over him, masking his body suit's IR signature. Pemberley did the same. The airless heat was punishing beneath the sandpaper chafe of the photo-reactive camo cloak, but they had little choice. Soon both men were drenched with sweat.

Echo Six Three went dark, stranded behind enemy lines, unable to radio for assistance. They took notes on enemy force dispositions, marking them on a paper chart with a wax pencil.

Unless somebody showed up to spring this hornets nest, they were trapped.

* * *

Across the city, the UNSC forces went from three separate, isolated strands and began forming a single clenched fist; a sharpened sword hoping to stab clean into the heart of New Cadiz.

General Stape's intentions were clear. While the local commanders had originally opted for tactical flexibility, hoping to snake into the city from three access points, Stape was going to forego subtlety entirely, and smash the insurrectionists with a single concentrated hammer blow. Mantis Assault Walkers, more manoeuvrable in urban scenarios than the heavier Scorpion battle tanks, were ordered to form up and make for the rally point. The streets became accustomed to seeing the marauding bipedal walker stalking through the city, weapons ripping out infestations of rebels with chattering machine cannons and whistling rocket pods. The Ranger and Marine teams, already bloodied in the initial phases of the battle, were given new orders and told to advance.

Fireteams Platinum and Trident reiterated their request to be redeployed to the ravaged city. Once again, their request was denied. Eric himself appealed the order, and was bluntly informed that the other Spartans were needed elsewhere.

And so, at the centre of this push would be single augmented Fireteam: Chimera. The Spartans' appearance had changed dramatically over the course of the day. Gone was the spotless gleam and smooth finish of their armour; replaced by scorch marks and scrapings from where stray rounds had chipped against the metal skin, the killing force ablated by their fizzling shields. Ever known for their improvisation, the Spartans had bedecked themselves with all manner of extra combat webbing: ammunition belts, grenade bandoliers, even a medical bag in the case of Chidinma. Ammunition was begged, borrowed or stolen from the corpses of those they killed. There was a rawness to Chimera now, a hard-earned edge which showed them for what they were: dog soldiers, bred for exactly this kind of hard-contact scenario.

This was just as well. For what followed would dictate not only the fate of New Cadiz, but also the very nature of combat operations on Granica V.

Few would survive.


End file.
